


Sherlock's Moving Mind Palace

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bickering, Blowjobs, Developing Relationship, Dreams, Drinking, Foot Massage, Grinding, Howl's Moving Castle AU, Kissing, M/M, Sassy Lestrade, Scars, Skinny Dipping, but there's gooey stuff too, confidence issues, dreamscape, mild PTSD, mild panic attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 53,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An adaptation inspired by the movie Howl's Moving Castle where Sherlock and John meet during an attempted robbery and after they share a mutual, sparking attraction Jim Moriarty shows up to wreak havoc as usual and then high adventure ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original piece based of previously published fiction. There is no intentional nods or winks to other previous works but as there is a fair bit of disfigurement fic out there I feel it's necessary to place a disclaimer here at the beginning. As always, comments and kudos are always encouraged and greatly appreciated and I sincerely hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

In the blanket of darkness that covered his room the shrill sound of an alarm woke Doctor John Watson from a light sleep. The incessant beeping that came screaming from his phone was the sound of a new day full of routine for John. He was suited for routine. John had found solace in his work in the army where even the most alarming and unusual injuries found their place in the rhythm of his life. After he survived the attack that nearly wiped out the hospital he had been charged to he was given leave to go home and reestablish his life. The war had its way with him and now the war was done with him. The war had left its scars though not many would be able to tell.

John started his morning routine; relieve bladder, strip last night’s pajamas, check self out in mirror, shower, towel off and brush teeth, shave, dress and out the door. As he brushed his teeth his eyes fell to the nasty scar on his shoulder, the last physical scar remaining to remind him of his service to the military and what it cost him. It was flushed bright red from the heat of the shower and still rough textured but John liked it that way. Some scars should be left as they were, unaltered. They were lessons and memories that burned, gouged and etched themselves into your skin.

It was roughly half past four in the morning when John stumbled down from his flat, freshly washed, shaven and dressed, to open the clinic. He never stopped wanting to help people even after he was discharged from the military. He decided the best use of his talents was to open a non-profit clinic for those who were struggling in London. His staff was small and it was always busy but it was comfortable, familiar work and he was able to help so many that would otherwise do without.

The building he lived and worked in was conveniently built. His flat was above a large commercial space that he had slaved over to turn into an acceptable clinic. Because of his nearness to the clinic he was able to come early and stay late and even take emergency calls in the middle of the night for a select few. Today he was early, anticipating a rush of parents with their children trying to cram in student physicals before the new semester started. It was a Friday and many people were able to sneak away for a few hours before work or take off early and John endeavored to be there for them.

He started the day by turning on the lights and the phones to assure his patients they were in fact open. He checked all the rooms to be sure that nothing had gone awry overnight and lastly took inventory of his limited supply of onhand medications. He never carried much in the way of high demand drugs but he did carry antibiotics and a few low-grade painkillers amongst other medications. They would be worth something to anyone breaking in looking for something to sell on the streets.

He saw everything was as he left it and went to open his doors and wait for the trickle that would become a stream of people. His assistant Molly Hooper was waiting patiently for him to unlock the door, smile on her face and coffee in her hands. Molly was a brilliantly trained doctor in her own right. She earned her degree through her ample trust fund and thought the best way to put her knowledge to work was to give back to a community who was in need of qualified but affordable doctors. John had liked her immediately.

“Morning, John. You’re early.” Her smile was bright as she handed him his own coffee, black with a touch of sugar, already so full of energy. Her light and happy attitude was one of the main reasons John had hired her. She was young and talented for sure but a good, positive attitude could be all the difference in a patient’s experience.

“So are you.” John took a long inhale of the steam from his cup before drinking deeply. “I don’t recall having told you to come in this early. And you have a key, why did you wait for me to open for you?”

“It’s a week before school starts. Busy, busy time for us I’m afraid. As for the waiting,” she paused taking a swallow of her own, “A lady likes a man holding a door open every once in awhile.” She laughed lightly and swept past him to settle her things behind the receptionist desk, which was where she would be until their secretary showed up.

John settled in with some paperwork and waited for their patients to arrive.

Once six in the morning rolled around they had three people waiting and one in room being seen. After eight the room was packed with families and Molly was relieved of secretarial duty and moved onto patients. The day was indeed a busy one with patients being brought in and discharged at a steady pace but with just the two of them on this day they could only handle a few patients at a time. They were usually busy due to their cheap rates and willingness to see any and everyone for all manner of problems. If a problem arose that John couldn’t handle he always had referrals on hand and every one of them a personal colleague either from his military days or medical school. Those contacts were the ones who helped make his livelihood possible with their donations, not only monetary but in supplies as well, and he liked to help them whenever possible.

Around two in the afternoon Molly mentioned that neither of them had eaten a thing all day and how silly it would be if one of them should have to treat the other for low blood sugar. John took the hint and ran to go grab lunch for them from a local deli that knew their orders by heart. Due to the rush John had taken a shortcut through an alley instead of going all the way around the block. Normally he would think twice but he was in a hurry and it was daylight, _what’s the worst that could happen,_ he thought.

Suddenly he felt a hard grip and jerk on his shoulder and then he was pressed against the wall of a building with a knife pressed to his neck. A voice from beneath a black hoodie greeted him, “Afternoon, mate.”

John knew his self-defense, of course, but his attacker had caught him off-guard and the knife was pressed in such a way that he had to hold his head up and that prevented him from gaining any leverage on the man in front of him. “Afternoon,” he croaked. “Can I help you with something?”

A low chuckle wafted from the hood, “As a matter of fact you can. You seem like a well-to-do type. I seem like someone in need of some help from a man such as yourself. In the form of your wallet and watch in my little hand here. Then we can both be on our merry way. You knowing you helped an unfortunate and me knowing that there are people willing to help the unfortunate in the world.”

Another voice sounded from behind John’s attacker. “Oh, yes. You are, indeed, very unfortunate. In more ways than one I’m afraid.”

The man in the hoodie was startled and for a moment faltered in his stance so that the knife slipped from John’s neck. John took the window of opportunity to grab the mugger’s wrist and snap it back with a sickening crunch.

“Mothafucker!” the mugger shouted as he clutched his useless wrist. He made to run but the mysterious man who distracted him tripped him and placed a foot on his chest. Leaning over the squirming man he said, “Like I said. Truly unfortunate. Now, if I were you I would stay clear of this alley in the future. This area is now under my protection. Give your mistress my best.” He took his foot off the mugger’s chest and said “shoo” before letting him scramble away.Once the mugger was out of sight the mystery man finally faced John and his beauty took the breath from John.

He was taller by at least a foot and pale like moonlight even in the daytime. His black hair was curly and very unruly. The stray curls that fell across his right eye did nothing to dim the intense gaze that fell on John. John’s mouth went dry. He coughed into his hand to break the silence, “Well. That was uh…”

“My apologies, where are my manners?” He bowed slightly, “My name is Sherlock Holmes. Thought you could use a hand but I see now that you’re very capable of handling yourself.”

John blushed and ran a hand through his hair. “Actually I was pretty sure that that wanker would've taken off with my lunch money and kicked me back to the fifth grade had you not distracted him. I’m John Watson, by the way.”

Sherlock chuckled at that and held a hand. John took it and shook it coolly even though his stomach fluttered in a way it hadn't it in years. After their hands parted Sherlock shoved his hands into the pockets of his black trench coat and eyed John appreciatively, “Pleasure to have met you John Watson. I do hope to see you around.”

“Absolutely,” John breathed.

With that Sherlock walked out of the alley the way John had come and when he was out of sight John exited the alley the opposite way and raced to the deli. His and Molly’s sandwiches had been sitting for a good twenty minutes waiting for him but they tasted perfectly fine all the same when he finally made it back to the clinic.

John was distracted for the rest of the day forgetting names, sighing at nothing and walked around in a general state of bliss. It had been so long since someone had looked at him with any measure of appreciation. Since before the injury, before the surgery. But even thoughts of the past couldn’t remove his fog of happiness. Molly commented on it half-jokingly, “what’s your glitch this afternoon, doc? You look smitten. You got a gal I don’t know about?”

John smiled at that and shook his head. “No, no girl. Just had a good day.”


	2. Chapter 2

The day ended smooth enough even with John being distracted. Around eight in the evening John showed the last patient out. Molly made a final pass in all the rooms to be sure they were clean and orderly before collecting her things and walking with John to the door. “

Have a good evening, John. Bring that big grin with you tomorrow, would you?” She gave him a toothy smile and walked out the door. John called out a goodbye to her in return and locked the door. John usually spent about an hour after closing up finishing up paperwork and he was on his way to do just that when he heard the door creak open.

He whirled around to face the newcomer, a handsome man in a charcoal suit about John’s height with short dark hair. The man had a casual gait but the air around him crackled with a crazed intensity. He put John’s teeth on edge. “I’m sorry sir. We’re closed for this evening I’m afraid, I was sure I locked the door. If you need a refer-”

“Manners my dear, manners.” The man walked towards John. “The first rule when meeting someone is to state your name and wish them a good day. For example, good evening, my name is Jim Moriarty, but you can call me Moriarty. Most people often do.”

John responded hoping to end their little encounter as quickly as possible. “Moriarty, I’m Doctor John Watson. Pleasure to meet you but if you’ll please excuse me I’m afraid we’re closed.” John held the door open for his uninvited guest and gestured for him to leave.

Moriarty chided John with a click of his tongue, “Tsk, tsk. As I said no manners. So rude to someone with my kind of powers.”

John’s eyebrow twitched in confusion. “Powers?”

“Oh now we’re interested in strangers? Well, let me break it down for you. I am the most powerful witch in London. And you, my dear, broke one of my henchmen. He’s going to be useless for weeks.” He looked to his cuff and tugged to removed an imaginary wrinkle. After smoothing his sleeve he caught John’s eye, “So I thought I would pay his attacker a visit.”

John was stunned. “He was the attacker! He attacked me! I was just defending myself. He should’ve been more careful picking who he tries to mug.”

“Speaking of mugs,” Moriarty said, invading John’s personal space, “you’ve got an awfully cute one.” He reached out to touch John’s face and John automatically reeled back to avoid his hand. Moriarty’s smiling face crumbled into a snarl. “Well, it is now. But I know what you really look like. Whoever did your reconstructive surgery did a fantastic job. Really a shame to undo all that fine work.”

John’s eyes widened in terror as Moriarty suddenly took his face in both hands and pressed hard. A burning sensation swept over his face and John screamed in agony. He could feel his skin stretching and burning then wrinkling in pain. Through the haze he heard Moriarty say, “Even though you can’t tell your new boyfriend about this delightful curse do give my best to Sherlock, would you?” As sudden as it came on, the pain was gone and so was Moriarty.

John heaved and panted, adrenaline coursing through his body. He put his hands to his face to feel what had happened. His fingers traced deep gouges that stretched diagonally along the length of his face starting from the lower left side of his jaw up to his right eye. His eyes watered at the unfairness of it all. “How...how…”

In disbelief he ran to the clinic’s bathroom, demanding the mirror to show him that it was just his imagination; that the scars couldn’t really there, that everything that he had worked so hard and sacrificed for hadn’t been taken from him again. But the face in mirror was undoubtedly John’s, scars and all. “No. No, no no no…” he couldn’t stop tracing the familiar lines etched into his face. The ones he thought he would never see again thanks to his compensation checks and a lot of bloody surgery. But there they were all the same.

“Just a trick.” John said to himself. “He said he’s a witch. Just fucking with me. I’ll just go to bed and this will all be a nasty dream.” He muttered assurances to himself as he dressed himself for bed and did his nightly grooming. He soon calmed and while not entirely convinced he settled and soon fell into a light, troubled sleep.

When he awoke the next morning the whole ordeal seemed like a surreal dream and John padded to the bathroom to begin his morning routine and stepped in front of the toilet to relieve himself. As his tucked himself back into his pants he glanced at the mirror and was shocked to stillness. The scars were still there and John began to panic. He stroked his face and began to hyperventilate, muttering over and over again the words, _impossible, how, why, unfair, no, no no._

In a panic his hand flew to his shoulder where the one scar he left unaltered sat. It was the same as it always had been, only instead of it being a last reminder it had become the benchmark for normalcy. Fingering the ridged skin on his shoulder gave him something to focus on as he tried to calm himself. “I have to call in. I have to close my clinic. I have...to…” John just sank to the floor, back against the wall, tears of frustration and fear clinging to his cheeks. He forced himself to stop thinking, for the moment, beyond breathing normally. He had seen all these scars before, lived with them well enough and had seen much worse. He could handle this.

He spent the next five minutes on the floor of the bathroom breathing slowly and collecting his thoughts. He had to take some time off from the clinic to plan his next move. He forced himself to stand and go to his phone and punched in Molly’s number.

After three rings Molly’s tired voice answered. “John, I know you’re an early bird but this might be a bit much. You doin’ alright, love?”

The sadness and disappointment at having to put so many people out while he sorted things weighed heavily on him as he spoke, fingers still prodding his shoulder to give him composure. “Yeah, I had a call. I have some urgent business to attend to.” Just then an idea struck him. A way to make sure the people he left behind would be cared for. “I’m afraid I have to ask a favor. Would you mind taking over the clinic for a couple weeks?”

“Oh no! John are you sure you’re okay? Of course I can run the clinic! Don’t you fret about it. Anything else I can do to help?”

“No Molly. I just have something that came up suddenly.” John stroked his marred cheek and frowned. “Do you what need help in the interim. I’m sure I can set you up with a colleague of mine to help with the work load.”

“No, no John. You just do what you need to. I can find my own help. Call me when you’re straightened. Call me if you need someone to talk to. Don’t make me worry for you.”

John made his assurances and made himself sound less unsure than he was. He promised to call as soon as he was sure he had things figured out and counted his bloody blessings that Molly wasn’t a meddler. He couldn’t handle it if she were to come see him in this state with only a magic man-witch with a grudge as an explanation. She’d think he’s absolutely bonkers.

After he hung up with Molly, John sat on his bed with a million possibilities swirling in his head. The most logical it seemed was to get out of his head for a bit. The scars etched into his face were bringing back unpleasant memories and being trapped in his apartment would only make things worse. A trip to the country wouldn’t be remiss.

John packed for a week in the country and made himself a sandwich for the road before taking a last look at what mere hours ago was his neat, reassembled life. He walked out the door and locked it tight with no clear destination in sight but he wanted to be moving before he broke down again.

He hailed a cab and took note of the way the cabbie stared while John gave him the directions to the train station. It stung, the not unfamiliar feeling of being stared at and silently judged. But John ignored it and bundled it into a tiny ball deep in his gut. He had many more stares to endure until he set his face right again. It was his life dammit and he was going to decide what he looked like. Not some stupid witch. And if he ever saw him again he was going to give that pretty face of his a few scars of its own.

He got a ticket that would lead him the farthest out of London the soonest, took his seat and waited for the train to pull out. As he was settling in and putting headphones in his ears he noticed a little boy staring at him from a few rows away. His parents were unaware of his open eyed staring until they tried to get his attention. He heard the beginnings of a scolding from the boy’s mother and the question, “but mummy, why’s his face look that way.” He sighed, turned on his music and cracked open a book. _It’s going to be a long ride, John_ determined.


	3. Chapter 3

The train had made it an hour outside of London when John tired of his book. His head still hurt with uncertainty and he instead tried to focus on the sights outside. Seeing houses and cars slowly turn to trees and fields lulled John into a light sleep. When John woke he found himself alone in the car. He flagged an aged ticket master down to inquire about their stop. “Refueling and cleaning. Everyone off the train for the next hour I’m afraid.” John thanked him, gathered his belongings and made his way off the train.

It was about noon when the train stopped and so John decided to tuck into his sandwich while waiting for the train to resume their scheduled route. It was nothing special; cold deli turkey, lettuce and mayo and about as boring as a sandwich could get but it was food. John finished it in six bites and tossed the wax paper in which it was wrapped in the bin and then settled in to survey his surroundings.

There weren't that many people milling around on the platform like him. Most people had opted to go inside the station where the loos and vending machines lived. They had stopped at a small village station that John had never heard of and didn't remember being on the scheduled route. Through the station windows he could see the inside of the station house and clear out to the street on the other side. The town had a main street like most small towns and it was lined with shops as expected. The building in which the station was housed was ringed with shrubs, trees and a hill on one side and made for a beautiful sight. The other side of the tracks showed nothing but an expanse of rolling green hills and a couple stands of trees. It was a beautiful and calming sight marred only the sight of something brightly colored in red stuck in one of the bushes farther out.

Curiosity got the better of him. John checked his watch and after determining that forty minutes was enough time for him to run out to investigate and then board his train he grabbed his duffel and made off towards the bush in question. The bush was on the slope of a hill farther out and higher up than expected. When he reached the bush he found that the red that caught his attention was in fact a bathrobe attached to a pole. Confused as to why someone would dress a pole he tugged until the pole wrenched free to reveal that the pole was a scarecrow complete with a small pumpkin for a head. The head was even dressed with a grey skullcap stretched across it.

“God you’re ghastly,” John said to the pumpkin. “Now I know why whoever made you tried to hide you.” But then he took a mental inventory of his own face and added, “though I guess I have no cause to say anything about how anyone looks right now.”

To his surprise the scarecrow leapt out of his hands and bounced on it’s pole in front of his very eyes. Shocked John wheeled around to see if anyone from the station had noticed this phenomena but it looked as if everyone else was well occupied and couldn’t care less that a seemingly inanimate object was pogoing for all the world to see.

“Well color me impressed, er-” John fumbled for a name, “Pumpkin-head? Seems as good a name as any for a gaudy scarecrow.” He smiled to himself, the first time in hours. “Well, Pumpkin. Been a nice distraction and a grand reminder that Moriarty was not a figment of my imagination but I must be going. Enjoy your freedom, squash!” He waved and turned to leave but Pumpkin-head bounced around him and blocked his path. Any time John tried to step around him Pumpkin-head blocked his path. Finally John threw up his hands and shouted, “Well what d’you want from me? I have a train to catch.”

Pumpkin-head, still bouncing, pointed with one of his stick arms towards the top of the hill. He bounded up a few feet and waited for John to follow. John rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Clearly I’ve gone insane. Following a bleedin’ stick around the countryside. Definitely not cause for alarm on the state of my mental health.”

John followed Pumpkin-head up the slope to the top of the hill. What stretched before him was a beautiful valley and smack dab in the middle of it what looked like a rubbish-heap with smoke wafting gently upwards. He faced his new found friend and spat at him, “Seriously?”

The scarecrow looked to be bouncing with more fervor. It seemed to be pointing very insistently at the landmark and John figured, _what’s the worst that could happened? I’m unlikely to meet any muggers out here and if I miss my train I could always board another._

He made his way slowly down the hill and towards the junk-heap. As he got closer he noticed that there were windows, chimneys and staircases woven into cogs, bricks and iron gates. The whole thing looked as if a factory swallowed a house. The longer John looked the more he picked out. The architecture varied wildly from piece to piece; this piece a window from a Victorian stone house, this patio from a modern flat, that window a ship’s porthole.

On top of the mismatched architecture the thing looked to be swaying and all held together by sheer force of will. Either the building’s will or magical will was entirely up for debate at the moment.

John turned to Pumpkin-head and asked, “What now, Squash? What’s so great about it?”

Pumpkin-head led him around around the side of the monstrosity to a big black door with the letters 221 B across the front in big gold letters. When John turned to ask about the door he was almost barreled into when Pumpkin-head flew at the door, one of his wooden limbs connected with the door to make a knocking sound.

“Jesus,” John huffed. But he didn’t have long to complain as the door swung inward and Pumpkin-head seemed to usher John inside. “I suppose I’ll see you around then, Pumpkin-head. You’re a bit too tall to follow I’m afraid.”

Pumpkin-head bounded away leaving John feeling more confused but too deep into his curiosity to turn back. He stepped into the darkened doorway and no sooner had he made his way to the small staircase in front of him the door slammed behind him. “How rude,” he scolded the door, the insanity of chastising seemingly inanimate objects not lost on him, and made his way up.

John’s eyes adjusted to the dim soon enough and after a minute he took in his surroundings. The room before him had a large hearth as it’s focal point in which burned a gentle fire. In front of the hearth sat a gorgeous black leather couch and on either side of it facing each other were a pair of chairs.

John noticed nothing else but the inviting glow that poured from the fire and he forgot about looking for the reason the magic, bouncing scarecrow brought him here. The place seemed to be deserted for the moment and since he considered himself on holiday for the foreseeable future he decided to take full advantage of the fire’s warmth. No sooner had he dropped his duffel and sat in the very center of the couch did he hear a voice bark at him, “How did you get in here?”

Startled John looked around for the source of the angered voice and finding nothing he ventured an uncertain, “Hello?”

“Hello yourself,” the voice answered, “Down here dummy!” John looked down at his shoes and was yet again barked at, “Are you that dumb? In the fire, scarface.”

That got his attention and John looked into the fire and there amongst the flames a little man sat cross legged on a charred, burning log. “How’re you...what are you...huh?”

“Very eloquent. Tell me, were you the smartest in your class, genius?”

“Now just a minute you prick-”

The fire around the tiny man crackled and spit, “Oh I’m the prick. Not the guy who barges into someone’s home uninvited. You’re right, my apologies. As you were intruder.”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to intrude. A bouncing pumpkin led me here and when it knocked the door opened and I came in. Didn’t know anyone lived here.”

The fire pulsed with the man’s laughter, “Ha! That’s one I never heard before. Whatever. Just better be gone before Sherlock gets back. Doesn’t take too kindly to strangers.”

John gasped.  _Sherlock. Lives here._ _Oh god_. Before he could get up from the couch and flee in embarrassment a knock rapped from the door and feet came pounding their way down stairs John had neglected to notice on his right. He decided the best way to avoid confrontation was to pretend to be asleep so he slipped to the edge of the couch and began softly snoring.

He heard the footsteps get closer and pass him towards the door and what sounded like a 'who the hell is he' muttered by a young boy. The footsteps made their way to the door and after a couple of chimes the door opened and two voices were heard.

“Hello, is this the home of Pendragon the Excellent?” An older voice answered in the affirmative. The first voice responded by requesting his presence at the royal palace and the second voice said that this Pendragon would be informed and thanked the first voice for their calling upon him and finally the door closed.

John heard the footsteps make their way back up the stairs and turn behind him. He heard the young boy’s voice return and mutter something unintelligible accompanied by the shuffling of papers. Then all of a sudden he got a sharp jab in the ribs, “Oy, what’s all this then,” a voice asked him.

John sighed and opened his eyes to face a kid who looked to be about ten. Scrawny and homely he didn’t look like much but he had a scowl on that suggested he better come up with an explanation. “Uh, I’m you’re new housekeeper. I’m here to clean.” John looked around the section of the room he neglected to notice and grimaced. “Clearly I was hired for good reason.”

“Housekeeper, huh?” The kid crossed his arms, “Sherlock never mentioned a housekeeper. He hates his things being messed with and I once saw him stab someone’s hand for moving an empty plate from the table.” He gave John a defiant look.

John was momentarily at a loss. Stabbed over clearing dishes seems a bit extreme but clearly he was led here for a reason. And if he cleaned up a little in the process of figuring it out, well, then that’s just what was going to happen.

“Well, when I came a-knocking selling my time your door opened and I took that to be as good as a yes. Figured I’d get a nap in first. Have a lot of work ahead of me. If this is just the downstairs I hate to see what’s waiting for me upstairs.” That seemed to be a good enough explanation for the boy. He shrugged at John and walked back behind the couch.

“Whatever, no skin off my back if Sherlock tosses you out on your arse for touching his things. But I suppose I could feed you before you start.”

John hastened to his feet, “No need for you to cook. If I’m to earn my keep I should be doing the cooking.”

The boy was digging in a cabinet when he replied, “Can’t use the fire. Lestrade doesn’t let anyone but Sherlock use his fire.”

“Damn skippy, whippersnapper,” came from the fire and John rolled his eyes. John walked up behind the kid and took from him a loaf of bread and a crock of butter that he had acquired.“Don’t be ridiculous. Lestrade won’t mind if we use just a bit of heat. Some bacon and toast with some tea would be fantastic and won’t take long. By the way, you are called…”

“Anderson. I work with Sherlock.”

“Anderson. Charmed. Now, would you please track down some bacon and a kettle?” Anderson shrugged and went off to collect the requested items and said that Lestrade would sooner burn him than cook.

“That’s right, scarface. Come near me and wham! Hit with the fury of my fiery wrath!”

John scoffed and walked up to the hearth, frying pan full of bacon and kettle of water in hand. “I have a name you know. It’s John.” He placed the pan in the coals causing the little man to run for cover behind a larger log with a squeaking scream. “And for the record, it’s rude to poke fun at people’s deformities.”

“Deformities, shemormities. That’s a curse, mate, and you know it,” Lestrade said from behind his log. That stilled John instantly. _How did he know?_

“You know about curses,” John asked him excitedly. _If knows they exist maybe he can help me remove this and I’ll be back in London in no time!_ That was certainly ideal. To be out of here and long gone with a scar-free face before Sherlock returned.

Lestrade snorted in fake laughter and the log on which he leaned popped. “Of course I know about curses, dummy. How do you think I got this way? This doesn’t just happen to a person.”

“Then you would know how to break a curse?”

“In theory, yes. But the thing about really strong and well-bound curses is this: you can’t talk about them and you have to break them yourself.” Lestrade ran his hands along the log, caressing the lines burned into the wood.

John sighed heavily, his chest sinking with disappointment. “How do you break a curse without talking about it?”

“Ha! You figure that one out and I’ll help you out of your curse. Now, if you’ll kindly remove that metal monstrosity from my ring of fire I’d be much obliged.”

“Fat chance o’that. Bacon’s almost done. And you’ll not let it burn if you know what’s good for you. I’ll pour a bucket of water on you faster than you blink.”

Lestrade waved his arms about and the fire bloomed out in response to Lestrade’s flailing, almost catching John’s jumper on fire. “What,” he shouted in a tone that resembled an angry toddler, “I’m a horrifying fire creature! Not a cook fire! No respect for the likes of me, huh?” Lestrade walked up to the pan and tried to push it out of his fire. “Out I say!”

“Oy, stop that,” John protested and gripped the handle and pushed back. A fierce sort of tug-o-war ensued and ended abruptly when they heard the door open and close.


	4. Chapter 4

“Cock, bugger, shit,” John muttered to himself as he forcibly pushed the pan back into the fire eliciting a whining “hey” from Lestrade. He flipped the bacon sizzling in the pan in an attempt to look busy knowing that the newcomer could only be Sherlock and he definitely did not want to draw attention.

“Well, well, well. Lestrade, I’m surprised at you. Letting someone invade your space like a contented house cat.”

“I didn’t let anyone do anything! Scarface over here’s the one who decided that bacon was necessary. Personally, I never get any so I don’t see what the fuss is all about!” Lestrade gave up on pushing the pan away. He climbed to the top of the most intact log, crossed his arms and pouted.

“Is that so,” Sherlock purred at Lestrade. John could feel him at his back and couldn’t stop his nervous fidgeting with the bacon. “You know,” Sherlock said as he took the spatula from John, “If you keep fiddling with them they won’t crisp.” He shouldered John to the side and took up his position in front of the fire. “Would you mind putting the kettle on? I’m sure if he’s allowed bacon into his little fire pit a kettle wouldn’t be too much of an intrusion. Isn’t that right, Lessy?”

Lestrade growled, “Don’t call me Lessy! And for your information it would be an intrusion.” Lestrade turned his back and faced the back of the hearth continuing his sulk. “But clearly I have no say anymore so go on! Go ahead and make your stupid leaf water. See if I care!”

John rolled his eyes, “prima donna.” And with that he placed the kettle on a hook above the flames to boil. The bacon was almost done and then they set about placing the toast on a grate in the coals. In no time the toast was done and the kettled whistled, causing Lestrade to whine and cover his ears, and everything was placed on the table for their meal.

Anderson had set the table with three semi clean plates and had even found a crock of honey to go with the butter for their toast. Sherlock served each of them a couple pieces of bacon and a slice of toast and then sat down to spread some butter on his own. “Anderson, go find some tea for us and our guest here.”

Anderson hummed his acquiescence and went off in search of tea. John filled three mugs each with steaming water and sat to start on his own plate when Sherlock’s voice stilled him.

“Haven’t we met before John,” he said in between bites of toast. “You seem awfully familiar.”

John’s heart hammered in his chest. _He doesn’t recognize me,_ he realized. He was so nervous at being recognized and having to explain the state of his face that he didn’t even stop to think that he wouldn’t even be recognizable. It was both a relief and saddening. A relief at not having to explain, though clearly that would be difficult if he couldn’t actually talk about the curse, and sad because he thought he felt something pass between them in the alley. _But no matter_ , John decided. _We'll plow forward as if we're new acquaintances._

“Can’t say that I have. But since we’re making conversation I’m your new housekeeper.”

“Is that so,” Sherlock said as he dipped a bag of tea into his mug. He followed it with a dollop of honey, swirling the tea to dissolve it’s sticky goodness. He took a sip and decided the tea needed longer to steep. After setting the mug down he looked directly at John, his eyes dancing over John’s face. “I don’t recall sending out for hired help. Housekeeping is supposed to be Anderson’s job.”

“Nuh-uh,” Anderson protested. “My job is to tend to your clients when you’re gone and feed Lestrade wood.” He took a big bite from his toast, butter coating his lips. “You said nothing about housekeeping when you agreed to take me on.”

Sherlock huffed in amusement, “it was an unspoken agreement of duties. But no matter, you’ve clearly been negligent in that arena. John will suffice.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” John muttered into his mug.

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock said as he licked his fingers free of bacon grease. John stared at Sherlock’s mouth over the rim of his mug, watched as Sherlock sucked his thumb into his mouth. When the beginnings of arousal began to travel down to his belly John decided he had had quite enough of breakfast and jumped straight up to clear the plates.

“Finished Anderson?”

Anderson nodded and passed his plate to John and bounced out of his chair and up the stairs. John turned to Sherlock, “Finished?”

Sherlock smiled up at him and handed John his plate, “For now I think. Oh, Lessy! Heat some water for me would you? I think I’ll finish my tea in the tub.” Without waiting for Lestrade’s reply Sherlock whirled away towards the bathroom with his face buried into his mug.

John shook his head to clear thoughts of a naked, wet Sherlock from his mind and set himself to the task of cleaning the kitchen. If there was ever a task to wipe a naked man from one’s thoughts it was certainly the daunting task of cleaning Sherlock’s kitchen. John hadn’t had the proper amount of time to really appreciate the filth that buried what he assumed was an oven, sink and more cupboards. _Well, no time like the present_ , John told himself and he set himself to work.

He started with excavating the sink to bang out the mass of dishes that had found their ways from cabinets and onto the expanse of counter space and just about every other surface in the kitchen, dining and living areas. Once that was finished and his pruny hands were dried he found homes for all the appliances and food items in the remaining cupboards. John found it easier than he thought to find a rhythm in his work and move from task to task. In only a few hours John had somehow uncovered a functioning kitchen and dining room. The only upset had been momentary nausea when he opened the fridge to discover jars containing human, cat and, oddly enough, alligator organs. After slamming the door shut and taking a moment for composure John was able to tetris all of Sherlock’s mystery science projects onto one shelf and cleared out all the expired foods to leave an almost empty fridge. He would have to shop soon but for now John turned his focus to the living and dining areas.

Papers were strewn everywhere along with random brick-a-brack and forgotten garbage. He spent a great deal of time finding homes for all the loose mess before tackling the dusting. With a handkerchief tied around his face and a duster in hand John frightened away every spider that deigned to invade the dark corners of Sherlock’s home. He heard chuckling coming from the direction of the hearth and John turned on Lestrade.

“And just what is so amusing Lessy,” John asked adding a mocking singsong to Lestrade’s pet name.

“Just cause Sherlock gets away with giving me terms of endearment doesn’t mean you get to, mate.”

“My question stands, oh fearsome fire sprite.”

Lestrade frowned at the use of the word sprite but responded, “I was just chuckling to myself at the image you make there, scarface. All that’s missing is a frilly black dress and pair of knickers.”

John smirked, “Not my cup of tea. ‘Fraid I’m not into the whole drag scene.”

“Well isn’t that a shame. I was so sure you were hiding a pair of stunning legs and shapely waist beneath those shapeless trousers and god awful jumper.”

“Lessy’s right, you know. That jumper really is hideous.”

John nearly fell from the stool he was balanced on at the surprise of hearing Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock stopped his fall, placing his hands on his back to keep him steady. John steadied himself against the wall and felt the heat of embarrassment creep across his face. “Sorry to offend,” John squeaked as he tried to recover. “But I am very fond of my jumper. My mum gave it to me and I find it homey.” John busied himself with a particularly snarly looking cobweb and choked down the urge to lean into Sherlock’s hands.

Once Sherlock was sure that John was steady he removed his hands, the heat and pressure a sad loss on John’s part, and strolled to the door. “Lestrade keep a light on for me. I’ll be back late. And John?”

John faced Sherlock, his reply caught in his throat at the sight of a Sherlock with damp hair and clinging white dress shirt. “Y-yes,” he croaked.

“Anderson will find you a room for you to make use of. And my compliments on your work so far. I’m very pleased.”

“Thank you,” he said before returning to the dusty mess on the molding of the ceiling.

“Don’t wait up,” Sherlock said before turning an odd knob next to the doorknob and exiting, leaving John red faced and flustered. He heard Lestrade chuckling again and he climbed off his stool and stomped over to the hearth. “What,” John asked Lestrade with a big scowl on his face.

“Boy have you got it bad. I can smell the awkward attraction from here,” Lestrade said between cackles. “Thought you two had just met but I think you’re not telling Ol’ Lestrade the whole story.”

“And why would I, sprite?” John stood with his hands on his hips and stared down at the little man in the fire. “So we may have met before. Before,” John gestured to the scars on his face.

“Oh,” Lestrade said as he leaned on a log and crossed his arms. “You think he doesn’t recognize you.”

It wasn’t a question and that made John curious. “He didn’t. I looked different. I looked...good.” _Better than this anyway,_ he added silently.

Lestrade nodded but didn’t comment on John looks present or past. “One thing I know about Sherlock is this; Sherlock never forgets a fact, conversation or face that he wants to remember.”

John didn’t know what to do with this new-found information. Rather than delving too deeply into his feelings on Sherlock and who he may or may not remember he simply stated, “I need a new project.” Lestrade smirked and asked if it had something to do with an opera chandelier and a mask. John smiled back wide enough to falter Lestrade’s grin. “No,” he said. “I think we’re going to clean out this sty that can be loosely called a fireplace.”

Lestrade’s eyes squinted in confusion and thinly veiled annoyance. “What do you mean we?”


	5. Chapter 5

“Get that thing away from me,” Lestrade screeched at John who held out an empty coffee can to the fiery man. “I have no intention of being moved.”

“Just get in the can, would you,” John pleaded. “If you don’t go willingly I’ll just corral you like a sheep with some strategic spritzings.”

Lestrade hissed in defiance and made the flames consume the entire hearth. “Hell no I won’t go,” he chanted. “Hell no I won’t go!” He continued his chanting as he paced around his logs and mimed holding a picket sign. John sighed and went to the kitchen to dig out a pair of tongs to forcibly remove Lestrade from the hearth. When he returned Lestrade was still pacing and John tried one last time to get him to go on his own.

“One last time, Lessy. Into the can or I’m going to have to get physical with you.”

“Oh, that’s rich! It is on like Donkey Kong, mate!” Lestrade took up a mock karate stance with the fire swirling around him.

John wasted no time in snatching Lestrade up by his waist, eliciting much screeching from Lestrade, and dropping him unceremoniously into the coffee can.

“You can’t leave me in here with no fuel! My fire will go out! I could die, scarface!”

“What kind of fire creature needs fuel?”

“Do you know a fire that doesn’t need fuel?”

John thought about it a second and conceded. He dropped a small chunk of burning wood into the can with Lestrade and went about his business of cleaning the hearth. John moved the still burning coals to the very back of the hearth, swept the ashes out and after rearranging some fresh wood onto the pile he lifted Lestrade out of his can and placed him gently in the middle of the pile.

“Are we going to have to do this often?” When John hummed in the affirmative Lestrade groaned. “Do we have to? What difference does it make if there’s a pile of ashes or not?”

“We most certainly will make this a regular occurrence. I will not have the disgrace of a dusty hearth on my watch. Besides, ash flavors the food in a most unpleasant way.”

Lestrade huffed, “Not like I care. No one bothers to share with me.”

“Do you need to be fed things other than wood for your fire?”

“Not really. But I don’t see why I should have to cook the food without any of the benefit of tasting it.” Lestrade kicked a stray coal, his face in full pout mode.

John smiled to himself and knelt before the hearth and said, “If you can agree to be a good fire sprite I can arrange little snacks for you as well. You’re right. You do a lot around here. Keeping it warm and apparently heating the water in the pipes, you deserve a treat.”

Lestrade’s face lit up and his flames danced happily, “Really? You’d do that for me?” He gave John skeptical side-eye, “Why?”

“I just think that everyone should enjoy a good piece of bacon every now and then.” Lestrade had nothing to say to that and so instead he buried himself in the center of the logs; presumably to nap or whatever fire creatures did when they weren’t insulting the help. John decided that cleaning the first floor was enough for one day and sank onto the couch for a bit of a rest when a knock came from the door.

“Anderson,” John called, “Door!”

“Got it!” Anderson raced down the steps and as he swept past John he was moving his hands in front of his face in wild gestures. In a manner of seconds Anderson had grown half a foot (including a stooped back) and gained a face that had the look of a man of sixty complete with a waist-length beard. By the time he made it to the door Anderson had completely changed and John was quite impressed.

Anderson opened the door and was greeted by a young man’s voice looking for the Wizard Jenkins. Anderson said that Jenkins was out visiting a client but would return later and asked if the young man would care to leave a message. The young man responded by handing Anderson an envelope and walking away with no further discussion. After closing the door John heard Anderson mutter, “Another royal summons. I wonder how he’ll pull them off.”

John’s ears perked up, “Royal summons you said? You don’t mean the royal family in London do you?”

“Know of any other royal families in operation in England,” Anderson replied and John bit back a retort thinking to himself, _he’s only a child. You’re not allowed to argue with someone who wasn’t even alive during your college years._ While his curiosity still lingered he thought it best to move onto a different subject. He could always ask about the summons in the morning.

“Anderson, Sherlock said that you’d find a room for me. Would you mind pointing me in its direction? I’m quite tired.”

Anderson groaned, “He didn’t tell me anything about a room.” But he just shrugged as motioned for John to follow him up the stairs. John grabbed the duffel that he brought and left sitting by the couch since he arrival and made his way up the stairs behind Anderson. The stairway crawled upwards in a couple of turns and then deposited the climber into a thin, long hallway. The first door they passed was open and showed a very big, very filthy bathroom covered in all manner of liquids and grime. John filed the room away as the next day’s first project to tackle.

The next few doors were closed but the next open one was an expansive library that seemed too big to ever fit in the house it resided in and a place that John definitely wanted to explore more thoroughly. Perhaps when the bulk of the deep cleaning was done. They passed a few more doors one of which Anderson pointed out as Sherlock’s room and made it a point to John that he should be sure to stay out of it. “No one’s ever been allowed inside it,” he said.

They reached the end of the hallway that led to another set of stairs and two doors, one on either side of the hallway. Anderson pointed to the one on the left, “This one is my room. Consider it also out of bounds. Don’t do your little cleaning thing in here either. That one,” Anderson pointed to the door on the right, “is your room. It’s pretty clean. We’ve never used it in the time I’ve been in there. I’m pretty sure there’s a bed in there.”

“Thanks. I’m sure I can manage from here. Goodnight, Anderson. Better hide all the things you don’t want me to see because I’m going to do a sweep of the rooms for linens to wash. Put all your dirty laundry and whatnot in a bin by the door. That’s our project for tomorrow along with the bathroom and sweeping and dusting the rooms up here.”

Anderson muttered a “whatever” and went in his room, closing the door soundly behind him. John turned to his own door, took a deep breath in preparation for disappointment and opened the door into his assigned room. The room indeed held a bed, though it was bare, and there was a wardrobe, a small closet and a small desk and chair. The room was mostly clean, just a light layer of dust on all the surfaces, so John had little preparation to do before settling in for the night. In the closet he found a set of sheets, pillows and comforter. _At least I don’t have to track down clean linens_ , he said to himself as he made his bed for the evening. When the bed was fit to sleep on John just stripped to his skin and sank into the bed. Despite its disuse it smelled clean and fresh enough and the sheets were soft and comfortable. Not a bad way to end his first day in the country. Even if he was posing as a housekeeper.


	6. Chapter 6

John woke earlier than the rest of the house. This was unsurprising as he had years of routine at getting up at, or before, the crack of dawn. John yawned and stretched before digging into his bag to retrieve a change of clothes and his bag of toiletries. The one thing he didn’t have with him was a fresh towel as he had planned on a hotel instead of a magic house in the middle of nowhere. _Oh well, if there’s no fresh towels we’ll just have to wait on a shower until we’ve washed some,_ he figured.

John groggily made his way down the long hallway to a bathroom that could only be described in terms relative to caves. It was humid and there was moisture everywhere and John could only assume that it was home to a strange ecosystem all it’s own. A quick hunt of the room revealed that there were indeed no fresh towels to be had as most of them were heaped in a pile by the door stinking of mildew and old shampoo. The rest of them were hung off of a modesty screen that was once beautifully painted with some kind of river scene but had since warped and peeled into an unrecognizable scene reminiscent of the impressionist movement.

John washed his face and brushed his teeth using his old shirt as a rag to wipe his face. He changed into a comfortable T-shirt and khakis which were not his usual fare but was suitable for the cleaning he meant to take on for the day.

As he decided the day prior, John started with the bathroom. All the towels made their way to the bottom of the landing to await their go with soap and water. Once his pile was completed he went down to wake Lestrade and ask for some water to be heated so the bathroom could be scrubbed.

“Oooh, Sherlock won’t like that.”

John huffed in amusement. “Seems he doesn’t like much to change around here. Why, pray tell, would he frown upon a clean bathroom?”

“He has everything in a certain order. He has a system. Don’t ask me what it is but the last time something ended up where it wasn’t supposed to be Anderson wound up in tears and Sherlock was sullen and difficult for weeks.”

“Sounds like someone needs a nap and a swift kick in the arse. He’ll get over it.”

Lestrade just shrugged and set himself to the task of heating water and John marched himself back upstairs to run the tub full and ready for scrubbing. John started with the walls which were, thankfully, all tile and easily cleaned. Underneath the grime John noticed that the tiles were actually a mosaic of a river; presumably to match the scene long lost on the modest screen. Inch by inch the river unfurled and as the river flowed about the room temperate cattails and bull frogs gave way to lilies and ibises and eventually more exotic nature that John couldn’t name. The walls were truly beautiful and John couldn’t imagine how someone could let this piece of art get buried beneath the muck and steam. It made him wonder what other treasures Sherlock had tucked away beneath the filth.

With the walls done he moved to the sink and mirror that were also covered in tile but less ornate than the walls. The sink was attached to a counter that hugged the wall and curled around the space that the tub occupied and every inch of it covered in bottles, jars and all manner of personal maintenance utensils. Among the identifiable were a hair straightener and blow dryer, at least seven different kinds of brushes, several nail clippers and two pairs of scissors. John could only guess at the rest that had found a home in the motley of products.

John spent the better part of an hour putting the hair care products in their own spot followed by the skincare and makeup products (John didn’t care to think in detail as to why Sherlock owned makeup), and lastly he put all the random assortment of utensils that were unearthed. After a bit of searching in one of the rooms down the hallway he found and repurposed a couple of baskets where he deposited all the stray items. After being satisfied of the organization of the counter John spent the rest of the morning scrubbing the toilet, bathtub and floor and finished just in time for Anderson to come walking in rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Anderson’s mouth hung open in shock, “I must still be asleep. This can’t be the right loo. Oh man, I hope this isn’t one of those dreams where you dream of a bathroom and then you wake up covered in your own pee.”

John grinned and leaned against the freshly cleaned sink. “Nope, you’ve found the right place. Do your business. Have a shower if you like, it’s squeaky clean. Not towels I’m afraid but I’m sure there’s still some hot water left.”

All Anderson could manage was a soft “whoa” and John left him in his dazed confusion, closing the door behind him. “Don’t take too long,” John said to the closed door. “I’m making breakfast now and then we’re starting on laundry.”

After the clean sweep John accomplished the previous day collecting all the items necessary items for their breakfast was a piece of cake. They were in dire need of groceries as there were only two eggs left and only a few pieces of bread but it would suffice for now. John would have to ask Anderson where they normally got their food as it seemed they were going to make a food run after setting the laundry to dry.

“Oh no you don’t,” Lestrade pouted at John. “You just ate hot food yesterday. Don’t be heat greedy!”

“Aw come on, Lessy!” John whined as he scrambled the eggs in a small skillet. “Remember our agreement? If you’re real nice and let us use the fire when Sherlock’s not here I bring you snacks in return. How about if I bring you some marshmallows or bacon for your first treat, huh?”

Bacon got Lestrade’s attention. “Really? You really weren’t fooling with me?” John shook his head and Lestrade gave out a laugh. “Oh my god, bacon. It always smells so good but no one leaves any for me. Okay scarface, you got a deal. Bring me bacon and these other things, mallows. Yes. Bring me all the tributes and you can use my fire.”

John rolled his eyes. “You’re too kind your highness.”

In a matter of moments John had served up their eggs and toast and a kettle for tea were prepared. Anderson joined him at the table and John decided to start the day with a couple of questions. “So, Anderson.”

“So, John.”

“Where does one get groceries out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“Where do you think, dummy? At the store. You just go out the door and down the block a ways. There’s a Tesco that’s not far away.”

John was confused, a Tesco? “I’m sorry. I came here from the middle of a field. From a train station that was attached to a tiny town that I’m pretty sure has never seen a major chain of any kind.”

Anderson cocked his head and looked at John like he was speaking gibberish. Then realization dawned on him, “Oh! Right, you came in the real door. Yeah, no, John, the door is magic. It’s linked to two different houses on separate sides of London, the teeny nameless town and somewhere that only Sherlock is allowed. The place you came in was the door linked to the Palace’s real location.”

“Palace?”

Anderson rolled his eyes and groaned, “Yes, Palace. Sherlock calls this place his palace. Or, more accurately, he named it ‘The Mind Palace’. Apparently he dreamed of this place as a kid and when his magic became powerful enough he was able to assemble most of what he pictured.”

John just sat back bewildered at the fact that he was basically living inside of Sherlock’s memory and shuddered at the idea that someone would keep such a cluttered mind. Anderson continued, “Of course the raw material is real. The outside of this place was mostly scavenged from old condemned houses and random odd places. The inner dimensions are a bit trickier. From what I’ve been able to gather,” Anderson paused to chew the last few bites of his toast.

“What,” John asked raptly.

Anderson continued at John's insistence, “The materials used inside are also scavenged but there’s some kind of spell that he used to make the inside larger than the outside. So he could fit more rooms, more stuff, more space.”

“You mean like those tents in Harry Potter? Or like the Tardis in Dr. Who?”

That made Anderson laugh. “Sort of, but don’t mention Harry Potter to Sherlock. Makes him mad. He once went on a two day rant of the inaccuracies of Animaguses in the series. Don’t know what that was about but I don’t care for another tear down of one of my favorite series.”

“If it’s so inaccurate and you both do magic then how come you like it so much?”

Anderson thought a moment and finished his tea. “Because the magic isn’t important. It’s about a kid my age who can do something special. A kid who in a world of magic, which is special on its own, can be even more special.”

John smiled and said, “That’s pretty deep for a kid your age. How old are you, anyways?”

“Eleven. But I know I won’t be getting my letter to Hogwart’s anytime soon.” Anderson took his plate to the sink and rinsed it. “So, John. Groceries or laundry first?”

John took a mental inventory and decided that food was more important than towels and said so to Anderson. “Care to join me to the Tesco?”

Anderson nodded, “I’ll show you how to use the door, too. That way you always end up where you need to go.” Five minutes was all it took for the two to grab coats and shoes and feed Lestrade enough wood to last until they got back. Before stepping out Anderson explained the door to John. “This knob here just above the actual door knob has four dials. One color for each location. Green is where you showed up.” To show John, Anderson turned to green and opened the door. Sure enough, when the door opened an expanse of green greeted them. Anderson closed the door and told him about the other two that they were allowed to use. “Pink is for Lambeth, that’s the place where I usually go for groceries. And lastly, blue is for Marylebone.”

“Marylebone?” John’s heart beat harder, _my old neighborhood. My clinic. My home._

“Yeah. Anything special there for you, John?” John shook his head, “There was once. Might be again. No more talk of my life though, we have groceries to get.” With that, John turned the dial to Lambeth and walked out to the streets of London.


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh my god,” Anderson whined, “These bags are heavy!”

“Less whining, more hauling. The fridge is empty and we gotta eat.”

John herded Anderson and their twenty or so bags of groceries in the door and up the stairs to drop everything with an intense sigh of relief. “I have got to get to the gym more often. I feel like I’m going soft.” John rubbed his arms to soothe the strain away and set about digging through the bags to put things away. “Hope you didn’t drop the eggs, Anderson! I plan on making pancakes tomorrow.”

Anderson rooted around in his bags until he found the eggs and put them in fridge where they belonged. The two worked in tandem silence and in no time the floor was cleared of bags and all the food was put away. John checked the time and it was just past one in the afternoon; plenty of time for laundry to get started.

“Alright Anderson, where is the laundry room? We’ve a lot of towels to get done. Not to mention clothes and sheets.”

“Uhh…” Anderson’s mouth hung uselessly open for a few moments before responding that he wasn’t sure. “I’ve never had to use it. My clothes don’t get terribly stinky or dirty and Sherlock hasn’t ever asked me to do laundry. Every once in awhile towels appear in the bathroom fresh and clean, as do my clothes, but I don’t know where that happens.” Anderson tapped his lips in thought. “Maybe the basement?”

“There’s a basement?”

“Course there’s a basement. But I don’t go down there. It’s scarier than the bathroom.”

“Brilliant,” John sighed and asked Anderson to lead him to the basement. Anderson led him to a door under the stairs that John had never noticed before. The door opened to a deep expanse of darkness that, when Anderson pulled the chain to a lone light bulb hanging from the ceiling, was barely penetrated.

“So,” Anderson squeaked, “like I said. Spooky. After you.”

John swallowed his immediate reaction to close the door, toss all the linens and buy a bunch of new towels rather than delve into what was surely the basement of a horror movie, if the rest of the palace was anything to go on. _Come on man,_ he scolded himself, _you were in a war! Bullets and blood everywhere! You can handle a dark - almost assuredly empty - basement._ So step by step he plunged with his hand solidly on the rail and after about ten feet or so another pull chain nearly smacked him between the eyes. When the second light appeared John heard Anderson’s footsteps behind him.

“How far down does this go,” John asked.

“How should I know? Never been down here, remember?”

Another ten feet down and the ground came up to meet John, making him stumble slightly. In a panic he groped the side of the wall by the stairs in search of a light switch. His finger found it and then the room lit up and illuminated a stone basement that had a bunch of empty storage shelves, a modest layer of dirt and cobwebs and in one corner there was a fairly modern washer and dryer set.

“Good thinking, Anderson. We’ve discovered the washing and drying units. Now back upstairs to bring everything down for washing.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent by Anderson and John swapping out loads of laundry, folding towels and clothes. In between loads they investigated the rooms that were in their hallway. One turned out to be a broom closet which conveniently held a couple of brooms, mops and a bunch of cleaning products. Two were extra bedrooms in similar condition to the one John now occupied. John swept and dusted the disuse from the rooms and moved on to the one next to the library and across from Sherlock’s room which turned out to be some sort of study. It had no books on the shelves or papers on the desk but it seemed ready to be used anytime someone had a need of it. They dusted in there as well and moved onto the last two rooms between Sherlock’s room and their own. One room John had searched through already when he was in need of containers for the bathroom and it seemed to be sort of a catch-all and had boxes from floor to ceiling with paths wound between the stacks. Leaving that room for another day they turned to the last room and found it to be a room inhabited entirely by one wingback chair, a music stand and a closed violin case.

“I always wondered where the music came from,” Anderson said.

“Music?”

“Yeah,” Anderson said excitedly. “Sometimes when he’s been working really hard or when he’s really upset Sherlock disappears for hours or days at a time. I never knew which room he went into but when he locks himself away the palace fills with music.”

“Really,” John tried to picture Sherlock with a violin to his chin and found it an easy image to conjure. Then the sound of a buzzer invaded his thoughts and it was back to the basement with him.

After the loads were swapped and folded, John carried the basket of fresh towels up the stairs and felt the very insistent groaning of his stomach. It had been hours since either of them ate so John decided that right then was a good place to pause the cleaning to begin cooking dinner. Dinner ended up being a simple meal of spaghetti and a garden salad. As promised, after the gas stove was provided with fire, John came over to Lestrade dangling a piece of raw bacon in front of the little fire creature like a bone to a dog. “Ready for today’s treat, Lessy?”

“Gimme! I want to taste that smokey goodness!” Lestrade made grabby hands at the piece of raw meat and when his hands touched it the piece of bacon sizzled as if it were in a hot pan.

“When the bacon is crispy it’s ready to eat. Shouldn’t take too long since you’re pretty much cooking it in your hands.”

Lestrade quipped back with, "I know it’s been ages since I had to eat but I remember what bacon's supposed to look like, scarface," and John went to boil water for the pasta and poured a jar of generic sauce into a pot before coming back to see Lestrade’s progress. When Lestrade deemed it suitably crispy he took a big bite of the bacon and an involuntary groan escaped him. “Oh bloody hell little piggy, where’ve you been all my life?” For such a small being Lestrade polished off the strip of bacon in no time, licking his fingers when it was gone. “That was delicious! Can’t believe Sherlock let me go so long without ever giving me a piece! It’s been too long. That bastard!”

John laughed and turned back to the kitchen to drop his pasta in the water and make their salad. “Glad you liked it. Just wait til you taste the sausage I bought and marshmallows.” He could practically hear Lestrade salivating.

As John was chopping cucumbers for their salad he heard the door open and close. Sherlock was home. He added the cucumber slices to the rest of the salad bowl, wiped his hands on a towel and went to place the salad on the table.

“Welcome home, Sherlock. Just in time too. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything in return just went to sit on the couch in front of Lestrade’s warmth. He sank deeply into the couch and spread his arms along its length and spread himself as wide as he could, exposing his whole front to the fire’s heat.

 _Well, he has been gone for a whole day and then some,_ John thought. _Maybe he’s had a rough go of it_. John decided not to poke his nose into business that Sherlock may not want poked and went ahead setting three places at the table. He called Anderson to the table and in moments their plates were filled and Sherlock had fallen asleep in front of the fire.

Anderson didn’t seem to notice Sherlock's return until halfway through his second plate when he got up to refill his glass of milk. “Oh hey, Sherlock! You’re back! Come and eat, John’s made spaghetti!”

Sherlock just groaned in reply and slipped to laying on his side on the couch. Anderson shrugged and sat down to finish his meal. When they were done Anderson helped to clear the plates. John wrapped a plate for Sherlock and set aside a bowl of salad as well in the hopes that Sherlock's appetite would appear. When John went to drape a freshly washed blanket over Sherlock he noticed the ragged look he had even in sleep. He moved to brush the hair from his face and noticed a feather nestled in among the strands of hair. Finding it odd for Sherlock to have a feather in his hair he went to pull it free of his curls. When his finger brushed the feather Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Gasping, his hand flying to John’s wrist to stop him. “Don’t touch it,” Sherlock whispered. His voice sounded more tired than angry and John didn’t ask why the feather was in his hair or why he wanted it left. He just told Sherlock that there was food left for him and that there were fresh towels in the bathroom if he wanted a bath or shower.

“Thank you, John. You’ve been a great deal of help.” Sherlock released his wrist and his eyes slipped closed again and soon he was asleep. John couldn’t help but smile at how easily Sherlock slipped to sleep. He felt Lestrade’s eyes on him and when John turned to face him Lestrade had a big shit-eating-grin on his face. “Oh shut up,” John whispered at him and walked off in search of a shower. Thankfully Lestrade was feeling gracious after his taste of bacon and he allowed the water to heat. John stepped into the stream of the shower and sighed with relief. The day of sweating and cleaning washed away down the drain. He emerged from the tub dripping and sore but he felt better than he had in days. Doing mindless work did wonders for the psyche and even seeing his disfigured face in the mirror didn’t disturb him as much as he thought it would. Yes it would be hard to get his face back to normal but he had walked this path before.

After his shower John settled into bed for a well deserved night of rest. With the bulk of the work done John could now try to decipher the puzzle his life, and the curse on his face, had suddenly become. He would talk more with Lestrade about what he knew about curses in the morning and give him an extra piece of bacon for his troubles. Maybe it wouldn’t be that hard to break his curse. Maybe he knew where Moriarty lived. The questions and possibilities swam through his mind, fast at first then more slowly, as if through syrup, until he finally fell asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As John and Anderson slept Sherlock rose from his brief rest on the couch with a pained groan. After rising he quickly decided that removing himself from the couch was not yet a wise decision and he slumped forward, head in his hands, trying to keep his vision from swimming.

Lestrade poked his head up from amongst the coals, “Oh boy Sherlock, you’re not lookin’ too hot.”

Sherlock scoffed, “I’m always hot Lestrade. No use telling lies about my looks.”

Lestrade shook his head, “You know what I’m talking about Sherlock. You keep pushing yourself. You can’t over do it or you might go permanently to the other side.”

“Who else would take my place when I can’t fight anymore? You know as well as I do that the Queen wants what she wants. No amount of pestering from you, or my fatty brother who hides beneath the Queen’s skirts, is going to stop me from fighting against the unjust. Someone has to take a stand against her.”

Lestrade smiled and leaned against a log. “This coming from a man who says he hate people.”

“I do hate people. Most people. But that doesn’t mean that the Queen can round up the magical folk and use us for her own means.” Sherlock looked directly at Lestrade, “Against their will I might add.”

“Can any amount of pestering convince you to put down your dukes and put some food in that insensible mouth of yours, at least? How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

Sherlock thought back to the day that John swooped in and he smiled in spite of himself. “Not for awhile. Was there any spaghetti left?”

“John made you a plate. You should eat.”

Sherlock nodded and heaved himself off the couch, bones screaming in protest at having to work so soon. He kicked off his shoes before walking from the couch and padded into the kitchen barefoot. The cool tile was a balm on his aching feet and sent a calming wave along his muscles and scrunched toes.

Just as Lestrade said there was a plate made up for him and a bowl of salad and Sherlock whisked both of them to the couch, fork and bottle of dressing in hand, to eat by the fire. Sherlock winced as he eased himself onto the couch. He tore the foil off the plate of cold spaghetti; a welcome sight to an empty stomach. Sherlock twirled his fork in the strands of sauced noodles and swallowed them with fervor.

He let out a soft hum of satisfaction and dug in for more. “Generic sauce, but one of higher quality. Boxed noodles but cooked to a perfect al dente and a reasonably aged parmesan sprinkled on top. I’ve had better.” Sherlock chewed another bite and Lestrade eyed him with a look that screamed ‘since when are you an epicurean’ until Sherlock swallowed and continued. “But it is good. Maybe I should invest in a microwave. Might be better warm.”

With the spaghetti gone and the salad demolished soon after Sherlock began to feel better. He was about to leave the dishes where they lay, as per his usual behavior, when Lestrade fixed him with an annoyed stare and muttered, “Ahem”.

“What?”

Lestrade pointed to the dishes and said, “John’s worked hard to pick up your mess. Least you can do it put your dishes in the sink so’s they can be washed.” He puffed himself up, crossing his arms. “It’s common courtesy.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and collected his dishes. After he deposited them in the kitchen sink he walked past the hearth again and muttered, “Happy, Lessy?”

“Very. Sleep well, prick.”

Sherlock bowed slightly in mock gallantry, “To you as well ‘light of my life.’ I’ll want a bath when I wake.”

“That’s not news,” Lestrade said before curling up inside the coals and settling in for the rest of the evening, hoping desperately that Sherlock knew what he was doing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_-John dreams-_

John knew he was dreaming. In dreams you see all manner of weird things in places without any recollection of how you got there or how the situation began in the first place. He knew he was dreaming because he was sitting in front of Lestrade's hearth in one of the arm chairs watching Lestrade and Sherlock talk. He knew they were Sherlock and Lestrade but they were not themselves. Lestrade looked much the same, still sitting in his pile of ashes and burning logs, but he wasn’t a mass of flames and he was the size of a normal human. Sherlock, or the figure he had assumed was Sherlock was harder to recognize at first. The figure had Sherlock’s curly locks but it was interspersed with feathers as black as his hair. Over his lips, nose and rise of his cheekbones there was a ghostly outline of a big, black raven’s beak. It was as if mist clouded his features, partially obscuring them. The most baffling feature was a spread of feathers that draped along his shoulders like a downy cape.

It was obvious he was being ignored. Lestrade was talking to Sherlock as the feathered man shoveled cold spaghetti into his mouth. A highly amusing image considering he had what looked like a masquerade mask covering his mouth, but the fork went right through the beak without a problem as if there was no barrier. John just chalked it up to it being a dream and he didn’t question his brain. He tried to listen in on the conversation but their voices were faint and whispering.

John got out of his chair and tried to grab the men’s attention but when he walked between the two they carried on as if he were never there. He reached out to touch Sherlock and stopped when he noticed that the cape of feathers disappeared into Sherlock’s shoulders. He raced around the couch for a better look and what he saw were wings. Sherlock had a beak and wings? _Okay brain, any amount of explanation would be helpful,_ John muttered to himself.

Finally their voices broke through the fog that covered the two men’s conversation. “But it is good,” Sherlock said. John smiled in spite of himself. He heard Sherlock’s critique of his food and he heard Lestrade scold him for not putting away his dishes right away. _As well he should_.

“Happy Lessy?”

“Very. Sleep well, prick.”

Sherlock said his goodnight and began his ascent up the stairs. _To hell with it_ , John thought, _this is my dream. I’m following him._ So that’s what John did. He followed and watched as Sherlock climbed the stairs, his wings trailing behind him. He theorized they were at least three meters wide _w_ hen fully extended; absolutely massive wings.

He noticed how Sherlock winced every time he took a step. One particular step caused him to suck in a gasp and grip the banister tightly. John reached out to touch him, steady him. When John laid hands on him Sherlock stiffened and turned. Sherlock reached out to the space that John occupied, looking past him, his fingers going through John. _He can’t see me_ , John realized for the second time. Sherlock look unbalanced. He shouldn’t have tried to touch him. _He can’t see me or touch me but he can feel me. Interesting._

After deciding there was nothing behind him Sherlock resumed his ascent and made it to the landing with no further troubled. He slowly made his way to his room and John trailed behind like a trained poodle eager to see what Sherlock’s room looked like.

When they reached the door to Sherlock’s room the feathered man turned the knob and slipped inside. He was about to shut it on John but John grabbed the door and held it open so he could follow inside. The room was more of a tunnel that stretched far out in front of them. It was too dark to make out any distinct features but the sconces on the wall illuminated Sherlock’s face full of shock, mouth agape in confusion. “How...John?”

John shrugged. “I thought you couldn’t see me.”

“I couldn’t. Did you touch me?”

“You looked like you were going to fall.” Sherlock nodded, his face returned to its normal mask of composure. “Why can you see me here,” John asked.

Sherlock tented his fingers in front of his lips, contemplating. “This room is my dream. You must be dreaming too. Leave me be, John, you don’t belong here.”

John didn’t want to leave. He knew there was something not quite right here with Sherlock. He was hurt and, damn it all if this was his dream, he wanted to help Sherlock even if he was a figment of his dreaming. “But Sherlock, you’re hurt. I can help you.”

Sherlock scoffed at him, “Help me? You can’t help me. You can’t break my curse or yours. So please,” he said with a cold voice, hands extended in front of him to make the door open at his will, “get out and let me be. Back to your own dream, John.”

When Sherlock stopped speaking a gush of wind hurtled towards John from the depths of the tunnel, pushing him back out the door. He was pushed out and landed on his arse and the door slammed in his face.

John’s eyes snapped open, suddenly awake in his own bed. The fall pushed him out of the dream and back to reality. He rubbed a hand over his face and let out a deep exhale. “Just a dream,” he told himself aloud. Shifting from laying on his back to his side he settled his heart and his brain, or tried to anyway, before closing his eyes again and willed sleep to come to him. Eventually he slipped off again to a deep, uninterrupted sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

John awoke leisurely the next morning. Despite the weird dream from the previous night John woke well rested and full of energy. With most of the major projects out of the way John figured today was a good day to explore the castle a little before he grilled Lestrade about his knowledge on curses. There was a stairway outside his door that went upwards and John intended to see exactly where it went and what kind of mess, and treasures, the next floor yielded.

It had been years since John had time to just lay in bed and enjoy the feel of his body lazily spread out on the sheets. It was glorious; the feeling of belonging nowhere important, no pressing need to run from bed and off to work. Make no mistake; John loved his work at the clinic and the army before that, but the fast pace of his life left little room to stop and smell the roses and John was determined to enjoy the little time of peace he did have.

He looked to the far wall of his room suddenly wishing for a window to let in the morning sun. _Oh well_ , he murmured to himself, _can’t have everything you want._ _Obviously._ The thought was punctuated by John running his fingertips along the scars that dominated the majority of his face. He never thought of himself as especially handsome, even when he was younger, and the scars didn’t help to fill him with self-confidence. He had always thought of himself as terminally average. He once had nicely shaped cheeks and he liked his eyes alright but nothing about his former appearance had struck him as anything other than ordinary. And then his world exploded.

John was last stationed at a clinic set up in some village that the U.S. and U.K. had combined forces in liberating the locals from hostiles in Afghanistan. ‘Clinic’ was a very loose way to describe the facility that had sprung up to treat the wounded civilians and soldiers in the area. They had converted a nearly blown out house and about five army issue tents into a space of healing. He had been in charge of overseeing the whole facility; everything from stitches to amputations were under his jurisdiction and he only had a handful of trained assistants to administer to hundreds of people.

All John had to do was close his eyes to put himself back in the dusty, bloody clinic surrounded by the dead, dying and weak. To him war always smelled like an awful mixture of disinfectant, dirt and blood. He remembered where he was the moment the world, and his face, shattered. He was in the middle of meticulously removing shrapnel from the back of a wounded Yankee soldier when shouts from outside started invading his concentration. The screams were shortly followed by the unmistakable sounds of explosions. He looked up from the young man he was working on to see which way they were to run, planning on dragging the unconscious man with him to safety, when the whole world turned white.

He woke hours later, though the world was still blank. His vision was dark with a ring of light around the edges. The light from explosions had rendered him blind and his face was on fire, pulsing with pain. When he tried to stand his shoulder screamed at him, a fresh bullet wound torn into the skin. It was only by chance that he was spotted and taken away with a lucky few survivors before the extent of his injuries caused permanent damages to his eyes or he bled out. Thankfully he and the rest of the survivors were airlifted to a clinic at a major U.S. base about half hour away from his destroyed clinic.

His sight returned a few days after they arrived at the base with minimal lasting damage. He would require glasses sooner than he liked but for now he could get by without. The rest of his wounds, however, took months of recovery. The military, most unkindly, discharged John with a face that would have put him in league with Harvey Dent sans the facial burning; skin grafts had taken care of all the burned flesh. Despite sending him home disfigured the military did, however, discharge him with a sizable pension; most of which he used to restore his face to its original state and to maintain his new found clinic.

John shook his head to erase his past from his mind. Determined not to sulk for the whole morning, John slipped on a pair of pajama pants and a plain t-shirt and walked downstairs to make a bit of breakfast.

This morning he was in the mood for pancakes with a generous dousing of maple syrup. He was just mixing the batter when he heard Sherlock scream. John raced into the dining room and watched as an almost naked Sherlock, naked except for a very small towel around his waist, ran down the stairs clutching his head.

“What’s going on, Sherlock?”

“What have you done to me?” Sherlock removed his hands to show a head of bright red hair. “Look at my hair!”John tried to touch Sherlock’s head to hold it still and Sherlock smacked it away and shrieked, “I look like a bloody bastard child of the Weasley family”

When Sherlock fixed him with a stare John, John finally got a good look at Sherlock’s unintentional new hair color. To John the new color looked every bit as wonderful as the black did. In fact, it brought a warmth to his face that his dark hair never achieved. “Sherlock, I don’t see a downside here. I also don’t see how this is my fault.” _Though I’d gladly take responsibility if he weren’t livid_ , he thought.

“You don’t see the downside?” Sherlock paced the floor in front of John, cheeks red and mouth set in a snarl. “The downside is that I look ugly! Awful! My aesthetic is completely off!” He threw his hands up in the air and strode off to throw himself face down on the couch in front of Lestrade’s hearth.

Lestrade leaned out of his hearth to get a better look and chuckled, “Bit of a bad hair day there, Sherlock?”

John came up on the back of the couch and shook a finger at Lestrade. “Shame on you. Don’t you have anything better to do?” Lestrade shook his head in the negative and sat down to watch Sherlock’s continued tantrum. John turned his gaze to Sherlock and tried to reason with him. “And you, prima donna, are not ugly. D’you know how much money people spend every year to dye their hair red? It’s a very becoming color and you still haven’t answered my question from before. You know, the one where I asked how this is my fault?”

Sherlock buried his face in the couch and groaned loudly. “You. Touched. My things. Disrupted my order. You evil, evil man!”

 _Sounds like someone should learn to read the labels,_ John thought. Sherlock continued whining into the leather of the couch and John was at a loss of where to start in comforting a man who was so wrapped up in something as trivial as hair. John was trying to fathom how a simple shampoo or other hair product couple so rapidly change one’s hair color without their knowledge when Sherlock began to mix unintelligible muttering to his whining. John leaned in close to try to understand better. “What was that, prima donna? Couldn't hear you with a face full of sofa.”

Sherlock turned his face ever so slightly so that just a corner of his lips escaped the sofa cushion. “I don’t see the point in living,” Sherlock said with a tone somewhere between anger and misery, “If I can’t be beautiful.” And with that, Sherlock’s body began to turn green. He ceased to move on the couch and when John went to touch him his hand came away slimy.

Lestrade saw this and he started squawking at Sherlock, “Hey hey, mate not on the couch! You’ll ruin the upholstery! Come on, Sherlock! It’s really not that bad, snap out of it!”

“What’s wrong with him? What’s going on?” John began to panic as he had never seen a person look so much like a cadaver outside of the autopsy table and still be conscious. Lestrade just shrugged at John.

“He gets like this occasionally. I don’t know why he decides to go all weird, alien slime when he’s in a funk but that’s Sherlock for you, I guess. Once saw him do this after a girl named Irene Something-or-Other stopped taking his calls. Could last for weeks if we’re unlucky.”

“Weeks? Oh bloody hell, no. I refuse to put up with this for weeks.” John rounded the couch and pulled Sherlock up from the couch, a gross squelching sound followed Sherlock as he moved. John tried to stand him on his own feet but the second he let go Sherlock started to puddle as if he were indeed made of liquid. All the movement caused the towel that was covering his nether regions to slip from his hips and land on the floor with a wet slap. John immediately averted his eyes upwards and gave up on trying to stand Sherlock on his own feet. John threw Sherlock’s arm across his shoulders and gripped him firmly around the waist and dragged Sherlock to the stairs all the while keeping his eyes on the ceiling. This was no time to be looking at Sherlock’s business no matter how much he would have loved to, provided Sherlock was actually functional and not covered in slime.

“Lestrade,” John barked as he began to drag Sherlock up the stairs. “Heat some water. We’re straightening out this mess right now. I don’t have weeks for this kind of foolishness.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Lestrade saluted as the two men made their way up the stairs. When they finally reached the top of the stairs and into the bathroom John deposited Sherlock in the tub that was filled with what he assumed was Sherlock’s morning bathwater. Sherlock sprawled in the water and whined at the sudden re-immersion. John closed his eyes to allow Sherlock some modicum of privacy and reached into the water to pull the plug on the now cool water. Once the bath had drained halfway John turned on the tap and let the tub refill. He rummaged among all the bottles and found a lilac scented bubble bath and added some to the water, both to add some relaxing aromatherapy and remove the need for him to keep his eyes off the man's nakedness.

“Don’t John,” Sherlock whined as he tried to get out of the tub. “This won’t help me.”

John pushed him back in and went in search of a sponge or a loofah or something for Sherlock to scrub the slime from his body. “It most certainly will if you stop whining.” After a quick dig in the contents on the counter John uncovered a white loofah. “It’s only hair. Not only will the color fade and grow out, but you have the ability to dye it back to your preferred color.” John held out the loofah to Sherlock, “Or you could do that thing that Anderson does, glamour yourself or whatever, and make yourself look like whatever you like.”

Sherlock just closed his eyes and sank further into the bubbles with a groan. When Sherlock wouldn’t take the loofah John just rolled his eyes and went to scrub his back, pushing him forward to make room for him to scrub. “What’re you doing, John?”

“Getting this awful slime off your body. You whined downstairs about not being beautiful. Two things about that. One, the slime does you no favors so that’s a good a place as any to start.” John rubbed circles into Sherlock’s shoulders, the slime washing away to leave the clean porcelain of Sherlock’s skin behind.

“And two,” Sherlock asked with passing interest.

“And two,” John swallowed, unsure of how his next comment would be received. “Speaking as someone who has never been spectacular looking to someone who has never been ugly,” John paused and licked his dry lips, “You’re beautiful. You could have any color hair and still be beautiful.”

Sherlock drew up his knees and whispered, “You’re wrong, John. Never been more wrong.”

John's blood boiled at that and he stood up so fast that Sherlock was thrown off guard. “Are you kidding me right now, Sherlock? I cannot believe the vanity! I give you a compliment and you’re too pigheaded to just accept it for what it is? A genuine compliment to make you feel better. Bugger that, have a nice bath.” Without another word John dropped the loofah in the water and stormed out the bathroom door, slamming it behind him.

John strode down the stairs and past Lestrade to the door. Lestrade called out to him and asked him where he was going. John told him he was going for a walk, turned the knob to green and walked out the door to the rolling hills where the palace currently resided. He needed some air. John began walking, replaying the scene in the bath over and over. Sherlock’s words hurt him. _You’re wrong John. Never been more wrong._ _Who did he think he was?_ John was fuming. Did Sherlock think that without his freakishly vampiric characteristics he was anywhere near as ugly as John was now? Was he really that vain? How dared he make that kind of assumption?

John stopped walking to survey his surroundings. He had walked probably a mile from where the castle currently sat. He realized that at some point the palace had also moved. As far as he could tell they were nowhere near the little nameless town and off in the distance he could see a small lake. He decided the lake was as good a place as any to take a load off and let his anger fizzle.

When he reached the shores of the small lake he stood by the edge and watched the wind ripple across its surface. It looked so peaceful that it quieted the fire scorching the inside of John. He decided to sit for a bit and let the calming scene fill him with the strength necessary to face Sherlock again. Before he knew it he was stripping off his clothes and walking into the cool water.

The lake was perfect. Cool and dark but not so cool that it turned the skin to ice. He floated on his back to stare at the sky. It was a serene powder blue with cotton puffs of white clouds. John lost all track of time. He eventually floated from the center of the lake back near the shallow end which was where John heard Sherlock breach his bubble of calm with one word, “John.”

John flailed widely in an attempt to hide his naked lower body beneath the water and, just like that, his face that had been so lax with calm curled into an annoyed grimace, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock coughed into his hand. “I think I need to explain myself.”


	9. Chapter 9

John crossed his arms firmly across his chest and huffed in annoyance. “You certainly do, you prat.” John’s heart pounded inside his chest in frantic time. Being as exposed and vulnerable as he was certainly wasn’t ideal but John refused to look anything other than confident in front of Sherlock. Sherlock was the one who threw a hissy fit first but John was the one who stormed out. He wasn’t about to turn tail and run here. _Not that there was much of a place to run_ , he reminded himself.

Sherlock had regained his black hair and it was damp, plastered against his forehead as if he had rushed putting on clothes. He had donned a gray dress shirt and pair of black dress pants but wore no shoes. An odd state of dress but John didn’t question it. He did question Sherlock’s being there by the lake shore where John currently waded stark naked.

“Yes.”

“Well,” John ran a hand along his chin, awaiting Sherlock's explanation.

Sherlock took in a deep breath and tented his fingers in front of his lips, collecting his thoughts. “When you said that I was beautiful, John, it struck me as odd. Undoubtedly a compliment but an odd one nonetheless.” Sherlock paused and ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “There are things about me that are incredibly ugly. I work hard to keep those out of sight and I work very hard at putting on a convincingly attractive exterior. It helps me...succeed in my work.”

“And your work is…?”

“Magically related and confidential.”

“Ah. Right. That clears it all up.” John nodded sarcastically and motioned for Sherlock to go on. “Was there more to this explanation?”

“Yes.” Sherlock began to pace in front of John, refusing to meet his gaze. “The point of all this is to say that even though my exterior appearance, excluding the brief upset this morning, is flawless though I am incredibly flawed. I am not a beautiful person. I am a monster. You would do well to remember that." He lifted his eyes to John in that moment as if to try and cement his words into John's understanding. "My comments this morning about my being ugly, though insensitive to your condition,” Sherlock gestured to John’s face, “Were nonetheless true. To hide my true nature I must be beautiful on the outside." His eyes dropped for a fraction of a moment and the smile that thinly stretched across his face was sad. "My aesthetic is mostly for my benefit than anyone else's, anyway."

John wished he would elaborate on that point but he was disappointed. "There is no point in going on if I feel as though I match what's inside.” Sherlock stopped pacing and stood in front of John and waited for the man to digest his words. 

“Let me get this straight. You think that you’re an awful person and you do work that requires a pretty face and without it you feel disgusting and that life is not worth living. Am I correct?”

"Yes."

"Well," John started as he rubbed his chin, fingering the bottom-most scars, “I have more questions than I ever had about you. But I doubt I’ll get any answers to any of them.” He suddenly couldn’t care less about being nude in front of Sherlock. He just wanted to throw on some pants, take a shower and eat the pancakes he had abandoned earlier. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” John said as he made his way out of the lake, making no attempt to hide himself. He was through with the cold water and his patience with Sherlock had run out the second he said being ugly made life not worth living. A huge slap in the face if he ever felt one. “I’m going to go back to the palace to warm up. If you’re hungry you can have some of my pancakes, I'm sure there will be plenty. If not, enjoy your afternoon.” Sherlock’s eyes traveled down John’s chest, flitting from his face to the shoulder scar, down his chest and widening when John’s hips and legs emerged from the water. John was determined not to show an ounce of caring and focused on slipping on his discarded pajama bottoms and scooping up his shirt. When he faced Sherlock and nodded his departure he saw that Sherlock’s cheeks were colored; whether it was from embarrassment or appreciation John couldn’t tell.

John made his way back to the house and made a beeline for the bathroom. He peeled the damp bottoms off, turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat up. When it began to steam John stepped in to remove the chill from his skin, sighing in relief. John reached out to the side bar along the tub and fished out a bar of soap that smelled like lemongrass and eucalyptus. He rubbed it along his skin, lathering it to wash away the morning, the lake.

While he washed he thought about the look on Sherlock’s face when he stepped out of the lake. Cheeks flush, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted. He ran his hand over his chest as he daydreamed, the picture bringing his nipples to attention and shivers down his spine. It was too much to hope that Sherlock had found his body attractive. He knew his face certainly wasn’t. But it was a lovely thing to daydream about and he found himself picturing what it would’ve felt like if Sherlock had taken him in his arms and kissed him.

Which was absolutely absurd because Sherlock had been completely childish this morning, infuriatingly so, and had called himself a monster in his own words. _But he makes one good looking monster,_ he mused. His body reacted to the pictures his mind conjured of Sherlock touching John’s face and hips, Sherlock kissing him, Sherlock’s hands roaming over his body, scars and all. Even though it was inadvisable to lust after a self proclaimed monster John couldn’t help the reaction that Sherlock inexplicably had on him. He soon found himself hard and needy.

John gave himself up to his insistent body and wrapped a soapy hand around his hard cock causing his breath to hitch, a gasp escaping him. His slick hand and images of Sherlock’s hands and mouth soon had him panting and biting his lip before coming all over his hand and chest. His knees felt wobbly after his self-indulgent wank so he rinsed himself quickly and stepped out of the, shower to towel off. He had forgotten to run to his room to grab a fresh change of clothes so he just wrapped a towel around his waist, gathered his clothes and walked out towards his room.

When he stepped into the hallway he saw that Sherlock was down the hall almost to his own room and he turned when footsteps sounded behind him. The blush John saw earlier returned to creep up Sherlock’s neck to his cheeks. John did his best attempt at a nonchalant smile and nodded his head to Sherlock in passing unsure of where his new found boldness with his body came from. He felt Sherlock’s eyes follow him as he made his way to his bedroom door. John turned to face Sherlock and found him still staring. He cleared his throat and said, “If you ever want to talk about any of that supposedly ugly stuff you’ve got up in your head you know where to find me.” Without another word he went into his room and closed the door, leaving Sherlock to his own thoughts.

He had no idea why he even offered to play psychiatrist to Sherlock. Maybe it was guilt at having a wank at his expense. Maybe he felt Sherlock really wanted to talk about it and all he needed was a push. Whatever the reason the offer was made and Sherlock would do as he pleased.

John dropped his dirty clothes by the bed and dug a pair of clean jeans, blue T-shirt and his favorite white jumper out of his bag. Once he was dressed he checked his watch. It was already late in the afternoon and he had gotten no work done nor had he eaten. He decided to at least remedy his empty stomach and went down to make the pancakes he had promised himself.

When he reached the kitchen he saw a note attached to the fridge with a magnet from Anderson: _Had to run some errands in town today. Be back later. P.S. I want some soup for dinner!_

John smiled and set himself to making a new batch of pancake batter as the old one had sat too long and would make sub-par pancakes. In no time he had a plate of pancakes smothered in syrup and his stomach growled in anticipation. After digging in the pantry for a couple marshmallows for Lestrade John made his way to the hearth to talk with Lestrade.

“Whatchya got there, scarface?”

John cut into his short stack and took a bite. “Pancakes,” he said around a mouthful of syrupy goodness. He swallowed and held out a marshmallow. “I also have a mallow for you if you wouldn’t mind answering a couple questions.”

Lestrade perked up and sauntered over to sit on the edge of the hearth with his legs swinging, “Sure. What you got for me?”

John took another bite of his pancakes and formulated his questions. “The man who cursed me. He said his name was Moriarty. Know of him?”

“Know him? Ha! He’s the reason I am the way I am and Sherlock is the way he is.”

“What do you mean the way he is? I thought he was born sulky and overly dramatic.” Lestrade chuckled, “Over dramatic, yes. But no one is born the way Sherlock is. I can’t say too much about it. That’s part of the curse. Though I can tell you that Sherlock and I are bound. Bound but separate.”

John was confused, “Bound but separate? How does that work?”

“Well lookit, mate. I am bound to this castle, this hearth specifically. Sherlock is also bound here but in a different way, he can come and go as he pleases. He doesn’t need constant tinder to stay alive. We’re both trapped but remain apart from each other.” That earned him a marshmallow, even if John didn't fully comprehend what he was told, and Lestrade took it gladly. While the mallow toasted in his hands John asked if he knew anything about Moriarty’s whereabouts or what he was doing these days. “No one knows where he lives, bit of a mystery. These days he’s running two operations. The first is in your realm, the non-magical realm. He runs a thieves guild who steal everything from petty cash to government secrets. He’s quite good at it actually. Higher than average charisma and intelligence, that one.”

“And the other? I’m guessing it’s in another realm.”

“Mostly.” Lestrade took a bite of the gooey marshmallow and sighed happily. “The non-magical realm technically lies alongside the magical realm." Lestrade put the marshmallow aside for a moment and laid his palms together to elaborate, "They touch and overlap in many places. And there’s always beings who float from one to the other but each realm has their own politics. Some of that overlap happens to be inside your government in fact.”

“Is that where Moriarty’s other operation is?”

“Mostly. He’s trying to recruit for the nasty side of things. He has his little baddies working in Parliament alongside the good side. He’s what you call a turn-cloak. He used to be a good wizard, or witch as he calls himself now. But when Sherlock and him had a run in many years ago he renounced everything that magic stood for and went to the other side. The side who wants to use magic against the world, not for it.” Lestrade polished off his marshmallow and licked his fingers.

“What kind of run in?”

“That’s something I can’t tell you. That’s part of the curse.”

“So is Sherlock on the side of good?” John handed Lestrade another marshmallow and Lestrade concentrated on toasting it perfectly.

“Yes. Can't tell you too much. Some of the details are a part of the curse and some are doled out on a 'need to know' basis. But he definitely works for the right side. As does his brother, Mycroft.” That surprised John.

“Sherlock has a brother? Never would have guessed.”

“Yeah, an older brother. Mycroft also has a touch of the magic like Sherlock but he keeps his talents tightly reigned. He uses his brain more than his heart. Magic mostly comes from your heart, you know.” John filed that tidbit away and let Lestrade continue. “Anyway, Mycroft works in Parliament beside the Queen. She’s part of the nasty side and he does what he can to help the magical folk escape her notice. He runs a sort of underground railroad for those with magic. Tries to get to them before the Queen does. She doesn’t even know about Mycroft and his abilities, but I guess that’s what makes him so useful in the fight for good. He’s got the best intel.” Lestrade took big bites out of the second marshmallow. “From what Sherlock has been able to tell me the Queen is amassing a magical army. With and without consent of the folks who are filling the ranks. Those who don’t come quietly are forced into service and many of them lose their memories and sense of humanity. Mycroft has been pleading with Sherlock to go into hiding and to stop fighting. The Queen is onto his trail. But he won’t give up.”

John finished his plate of pancakes when Lestrade finished his marshmallow, both of them licking their fingers and wiping their faces. “What does she want with a magical army? Isn’t there anyone else opposing her? Does the magical world have a king or queen, or something?”

“Well, the first question is easy. She wants a secret weapon. A force to be reckoned with by both British civilians and enemies abroad. She plans to live forever and with so much magic amassed around her she’s well on her way to becoming almost immortal. It came too late in life to save her looks but that works to her advantage. Who thinks a sweet looking old lady could ever be an evil mastermind that feeds off the life force of others to help keep her body ticking?”

“Fair point.”

“As for the leaders of the magical world, they’re all in turmoil. Their royal family is missing." After a second he rethought his answer, a slight grimace on his face. "Well, most of it was found dead. The last remaining missing member, a prince named William, hasn’t been seen in almost a year. He could be anywhere but until he’s found there’s no one to rally behind. The magical folk are lost and floundering.”

John let all the information Lestrade shared seep into his brain. He still had a million questions about everything but he decided on one last one for the evening. “One more question for tonight, Lessy.”

“Shoot.”

“What is Sherlock?”

"You mean besides a smart mouthed, bratty wizard?"

John nodded and Lestrade sighed heavily, the fire in him dimmed slightly. He took a long time to answer, shifting uncomfortably as if searching for an appropriate answer. Finally he replied, “Sherlock is a shapeshifter.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“A shapeshifter, an animagus, turns into an animal through magic.”

John’s dream rushed back to him. Licking his lips in anticipation he asked, “What does he change into?”

“He turns into a raven. A raven the size of a pterodactyl. It’s the shape he takes when he’s off doing the work in that other realm.” Well that explained a few things, John mused. Lestrade continued, “Through the door that you and Anderson are forbidden to walk through lies the realm where war is raging. Those poor souls who lost their humanity bleed back into the magical world under the Queen’s orders and snatch other magical folk off the streets to make them into mindless soldiers like them. They often take the shape of giant birds or dogs. Sometimes they’re more grisly like bears or wolves or big cats. I think it has something to do with your personality that dictates what you are. But anyways, Sherlock is a raven and he stays a raven in the magical world the entire time he’s there. He can control his shift there and stay human but he says he’s less effectual that way. But it’s becoming more dangerous by the day to stay in his animal form for extended periods.”

“Why dangerous?”

“Magic relies on balance. Balance with oneself and balance with the world around you. If the scale is tipped too far one way or another there are consequences for those who use it prolongedly. And boy, the Queen has certainly fucked with the order of things." Lestrade rested his hands on his thighs and leaned on them heavily. "There’s a bunch of ways it can bite you in the arse but often it involves damaging or removing your humanity. Some people fade away cell by cell, like mist in sunlight. Others become soulless zombies who roam the earth with no purpose until their body stops functioning. For those who are shapeshifters they run the chance of being consumed by the animal inside.”

John thought back to that day that Sherlock passed out on the couch. “The other day, when Sherlock came back from that other realm, when I went to put a cover on him there was a feather in his hair. He told me not to touch it.”

“Shit,” Lestrade hissed. “He’s worse off than I thought. He’s taxing himself too much. He’s starting to change.” Lestrade started pacing and ran his hands through his hair. “He has to stop. He has to take a break or he could lose himself.”

“He told me there was ugly things inside him. He said he didn’t want to match what was inside. Do you think he knows how bad it’s gotten? Do you think the ugly is him knowing he’s slipping?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You think you could talk some sense into him?”

“Unlikely.”

A weighted silence filled the room and neither Lestrade nor John knew how to break it. Fortunately for them they soon heard Sherlock’s feet pounding down the stairs and he appeared before them as if the morning's unpleasantness never happened. He passed the couch on his way to the kitchen and said, “You two certainly are chummy. Whatever are you talking about?”

“You,” Lestrade said. “All bad too.”

“Would expect nothing less, Lessy.” The sound of rummaging from the fridge signaled to them that Sherlock was searching for food. He walked out to join them carrying a strawberry yogurt and spooning a mouthful to his lips. “I’ll be gone in a few moments. Shouldn’t be too long. But all the same, keep a light on, don’t wait up, yadda yadda yadda.” Sherlock finished his yogurt in five bites and set the container on the dining table. He made his way to the door but stopped suddenly and turned to face John.

“I want to apologize once more for my behavior this morning. I was rude and you were right. It’s only hair and as you can see I was able to set it right without much hassle.” His arm twitched upward as if he wanted to shake hands but was unsure how to complete the motion. He apparently decided against the gesture, clenched his hand and brought it to his side. Instead he inclined his head in farewell and walked out into the mysterious abyss that was the fourth portal.

John's heart swelled with an unnamed feeling.  _Pride, affection?_ When he faced Lestrade he saw the little fire demon's mouth hanging open, eyes wide. "What's stuck in your craw, sprite?" _  
_

"He," Lestrade pointed at the door in amazement. "He apologized! To you of all people! He never does that." Lestrade turned his astonished face on John, "What did you do to him?"

John shrugged and answered simply, "I really have no idea."


	10. Chapter 10

The next few days went by without any further incident. John kept up with the housework by keeping all the surfaces dust free, the fridge stocked and washing their never ending stream of dirty laundry. It seemed that since towels were no longer a rare commodity both Anderson and Sherlock liked to bathe more than should have been necessary. In his spare time John explored the rest of the house.

When he finally searched the upstairs he found an attic filled to bursting with the most random brick-a-brack. He poured over strange maps and dug through chests of old clothing. In one chest he found a bunch of old photos. Not trying to pry into Sherlock’s life more than was necessary he just glanced at the ones that was set in frames on top. One picture was of two boys and a little puppy. The older boy looked to be about twelve and the younger somewhere between five and six. His suspicions on this being a picture of a young Sherlock and his brother Mycroft were confirmed when he slid it out of the frame and saw the two boys’ names scrawled on the back along with the name ' _Redbeard'_  which he assumed was the name of the puppy.

John woke late this day and mulled over in his mind what to do with his day. He had spent the entire day before in the attic and the dust made his eyes water, so this day he sought refuge from allergies in the library. There was sure to be some dust but almost assuredly not as thick and irritating as the dust in the attic. The library looked like something out of a palace with it’s expansive lower floor and towers upon towers of books. There were two floors and every inch of them both were covered in deep cherry and mahogany shelves, tables and chairs. The carpet that spanned the length of the floors were carpeted in a deep, royal blue and matched the velvet drapes that hung across the one window in the whole library. Despite being the only window it was more than enough to let in the light; being as it was twenty' feet tall and at least as wide. Most of the window was a single giant pane of clear glass but it was bordered in multi colored stained glass. When he got close enough to make out the details he realized that every pane was a foot in length and about four inches in width and each was a separate, beautifully crafted scene. Some of them showed scenes from Greek and Roman mythology, others from Nordic and Egyptian mythology. There were some that depicted garden scenes and polo games. One that he found particularly appealing was a scene of a waterfall collecting into a pool surrounded on it’s banks by flowers and deer.

Such artwork was amazing and he couldn’t believe that all of what he was seeing was a figment of Sherlock’s amazing imagination come to life. There was so much knowledge, so many memories stocked inside this amazing place, the experience was humbling. After spending an hour inspecting the most accessible panes on the window he started his search of he stacks.

There was no order to how the books were organized; not by author, subject, not even color. They spanned thousands of topics, from poetry to mathematics, psychology to Shakespeare, everything was represented. He wondered if all these books, atlases and tomes were real or if some of them were memorized manifestations from Sherlock’s brain. He would have to sit down and ask him some day how he managed to build and fill his Mind Palace. His eye caught a particular red book that had brightly glinting gold leaf stamped into it’s spine. Since it was on the top shelf John grabbed hold of one of the stack’s ladders and swung it over to where the book was and climbed up. When he reached it and cracked it open, leaning heavily on the top shelf to support it’s weight, it proved to be an early medical textbook with pictures of the human skeletal structure inked within its pages. It was from the late 1800’s and looked to be in German. He was completely engrossed with trying to reconcile his knowledge of the words in English for the bones in your hand with the ones written in German when Sherlock’s voice startled him, “Find anything interesting?”

The presence of Sherlock’s voice, any voice in the quiet of the library really, startled him enough that when he jumped he almost lost his footing and nearly dropped the book in his hands. Sherlock reached up and pressed John’s hip firmly into the ladder and at the same time took the book from John’s hands so he could steady himself on the ladder. “Careful there, John. You seem to have a habit of nearly falling off things. It’s almost as if you want to break your neck.”

“Well,” John licked his lips and replied, “You have a bit of a habit of startling me when I’m standing on things. Maybe I should put a bell round your neck, you’re so damn quiet.”

Sherlock smiled and chuckled softly. His hand never left John’s hip even when John was steady. The warmth burrowing into John’s body was welcome and he wished he wasn’t up so high so he could lean into the touch. He decided to press his luck with Sherlock’s helping hand and started down the ladder. To his great surprise the hand never left his body; in fact, it moved to his back to help keep him steady as he made his way down. Feet planted firmly on the ground John turned and faced Sherlock whose body somehow seemed much closer than it should have.

Sherlock’s proximity pressed him to lean against the ladder and soon Sherlock’s hands were braced against the sides of the ladder above his head, effectively pinning John where he stood. John shouldn’t have found this as erotic as he did but damn it if his body didn’t like it. Sherlock looked at him with a wide-grinned face and asked, “Do you like being in my employ?”

John’s mouth was dry. “Y-yes? Is this a trick question?”

“Certainly not. I ask because I want to ask you if you wouldn’t mind expanding your duties temporarily.”

John swallowed and thought about it, _what other needs could he possibly have for me?_ “I guess that would depend on what the duties were. What do you need of me?”

Sherlock’s hands slid down to rest at elbow height somehow making John feel more trapped, which he certainly didn't mind. Sherlock’s eyes glowed with mischief and he responded, “I need you to represent me at the royal palace. I need you to parlay with the Queen and my snooty brother for me.”

John’s eyebrow twitched upward in confusion, “Why?”

“Anderson is too young, Lestrade can’t leave the castle and I’d rather see as little of my pudgy brother as possible. You present a delightful, secret fourth option that my brother, and more importantly the Queen, won’t be expecting.”

“Why are you being summoned to the palace? Lestrade mentioned Mycroft worked with the Queen but what should she want with you?” John had a good enough idea why the Queen wanted him but he wanted to hear what Sherlock had to say about it.

Sherlock’s eyes stared upwards and his lips curled inward as he tried to find the words that would make John want to help. As if he already wasn’t invested enough to help with whatever Sherlock asked of him. “Because she knows of my...special talents. She wants to use me for “God and Country” and I’m tired of sending letters to politely decline her numerous offers.” Sherlock’s hands took him by the shoulders and his eyes caught John’s. “Please go for me. Mycroft will listen to you.”

“Why should he?”

“Because he knows I wouldn’t send someone in my stead unless I trusted them entirely.”

That caught John off guard. “You trust me that much? Why?”

“I have my reasons. Now, no more questions. Would you go to the palace in my stead?”

With Sherlock’s eyes silently pleading, betraying a wild need that the rest of his face hid well, how could he refuse? “I suppose I could.”

Sherlock’s face lit up with relief and gratitude. “Excellent. Now, come sit and we’ll go over my plan. Don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out. And afterwards, we’ll have a drink. I feel we could both use one.”

Sherlock made good on his offer after about an hour of discussing his plan for getting John on the premises -which involved John bringing one of the summon’s Sherlock received and a handwritten note to the Queen to explain the matter, incidentally- Sherlock bid for John to follow him to the kitchen while he dug around for some booze.

“Sherlock,” John called after him as he followed down the stairs, “Are you sure the Queen and Mycroft will accept your response? Will they even give me an audience?”

“Don’t worry, John. I’ll follow along in a very discreet disguise.” Sherlock rummaged in the cabinets trying to find his, as he put it, 'super secret stash'. John doubted there even was a stash as he had been all over that kitchen in recent history and had found not a single drop of liquor to be had. “And if you are in a pinch I’ll be right there to sort it out.”

John just shook his head and sat himself at the dining table and waited for Sherlock to declare that he had, or had not, found his stash. “Aha! Found you! Temporarily deleted which one of these had the false backing.” Sherlock was crouched in front of the bottom cabinets by the oven where John had stored all their cookware. John heard bottles clanking as Sherlock jostled them apparently looking for something specific. Obviously miffed at not having found it he leaned back and made eye contact with John to say, “I believe the phrase is ‘pick your poison’.”

“That depends. I see we’re not drinking beer so the question is shots or cocktails?”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and smiled, “I believe in living dangerously.”

“Shots then?”

“Bingo.”

“Well then,” John rested his head in his hands on the table, “in that case tequila.”

With that, more bottles were jostled and clanked before Sherlock procured a full bottle of Sauza. He reached up to a top cabinet to pull down two tumblers. “Did you happen to get any limes, John?”

“You’re in luck. I planned on making limeade soon. There’s a bunch in the fridge.” John walked over to the fridge to help as Sherlock had his hands full. He opened the fridge and bent to procure the limes from their home in crisper bin and when he turned to grab a knife he found Sherlock with an appreciative look spanning his face. Trying to keep things light and not show just how inept at flirting with men he really was John joked, “See anything you like?”

“Absolutely.”

John felt his face flush warmly and he skirted around Sherlock to grab a paring knife off the block and set himself to cutting a few limes for their shots. After cutting up about four limes, thinking they surely won’t use even that much, he put them in a bowl, grabbed a salt shaker and walked over to the table. Sherlock had already seated himself and had poured them each a shot. He reached for the salt shaker and asked, “So what do we toast to?”

John thought a moment, inspecting his glass, “To new beginnings.” He held out his glass to accept the compulsory clinking that follows a toast. Sherlock held his glass out towards John’s, “To new beginnings.” The glasses clinked and both shots disappeared down the men’s throats.

Two hours later most of the bottle was gone, same with the limes, and both men were giggling like morons. Gasping for air Sherlock wheezed, “Are you kidding me? ID-10-T forms? They’re still using that old relic on rookies?”

John giggled and nodded as he poured another shot. “And the best part was when the other warehouse we sent this poor kid to sent him back to ours with a written request for elbow grease! Poor rookie stood there so scared at having two commanding officers yelling at him. Thought he was goin’ta piss himself!” The two men were in tears, gripping their sides and laughing uncontrollably. “Stop laughing, I’m gonna spill this all over me!”

“Well it would serve you right. You’re doing it wrong anyway! You forgot your salt.”

Bleary-eyed John looked at his wrist and saw that he had in fact forgotten to pour salt on his wrist. He set his glass on the table and picked up the salt shaker. When he brought his wrist to his lips to lick it Sherlock reached across the table and grabbed John’s wrist, stilling him, mouth agape.

Sherlock leaned over the table with his face inches from John’s. “Allow me,” he said before turning John’s wrist to his lips. Sherlock closed his eyes and kissed John’s wrist lightly before dragging his tongue across John’s skin. His teeth nipped lightly before his tongue laved over the nipped skin, sending shivers down John’s spine.

John sucked in a gasp and stiffened at the unexpected display. Sherlock opened his eyes and locked them onto John and released the now well slicked wrist, settling back into his seat. His gaze never leaving Sherlock’s, John absentmindedly tipped the salt onto his wrist and, with lime and tumbler in hand, licked the salt and tossed back the shot. John bit into the sour fruit and found that his whole body was aflame with desire. The half-buried need he had lived with from the moment of their first meeting had surfaced, making itself fully apparent, and John was at a loss of what to do next.

John licked his lips and set his tumbler on the table. “That was...unexpected.”

“Yes. I surprised myself too.” His fingers fiddled with his own empty glass but his eyes stayed trained on John. “I don’t usually give in to sudden impulses. I hope I didn’t cause any discomfort.”

John chuckled at that and the familiar twitch of a hardening cock tightening his pants, “I suppose you could say I’m uncomfortable. No complaints as of yet, though.”

“I see.” Sherlock poured himself himself a shot and salted his own wrist. After knocking back the burning liquid and biting into a lime Sherlock licked his lips. “I seem to be in a similar predicament myself.”

The words were out of John’s mouth before he had the chance to think on or regret them, “Maybe we should remedy that.” John rose amazingly graceful considering how intoxicated he was. Sherlock followed suit and then they stood an inch apart, chest to chest, John looking up into Sherlock’s eyes. John’s pulse raced with excitement, _is this really bloody happening or did I pass out and am dreaming,_ he screamed internally. Finally, Sherlock brought a hand to cup John’s face and lowered his lips to John’s.

The kiss started slow and exploratory. John tipped his face upward and opened up to Sherlock, his lips parting to let Sherlock’s tongue dart shallowly in and out. Sherlock tasted of lime and tequila, he imagined that he tasted very much the same. John deepened the kiss by winding one arm around Sherlock’s waist to press their bodies together, the other arm snaked up his back to feel the muscle that lay beneath the shirt.

Once they were pressed together the kiss turned hot and needy, both of them grabbing at each other in hunger as their lips devoured each other. John soon found his lower back pressed against the table and he had to grip the edge to keep from flat out falling onto it. Their kiss broke and Sherlock clearly liked the picture John made; slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed, lips reddened and parted, breath heavy. Sherlock made a low growl of desire deep in his throat and pressed himself against John and bent him back slightly to attack his neck. His thigh slipped between John’s and caused delicious friction that, combined with Sherlock’s lips on his neck, made John to moan softly and bite his lip.

“Sh-Sherlock,” John gasped.

Lips still pressed to John’s neck Sherlock responded, “Yes, John?”

Sherlock’s teeth nipped the soft spot below John’s left ear and was followed by very eager sucking of lips that made John lose his thoughts. He moaned and panted with need but tried to get his words out calmly. “Why…why me?”

Sherlock lifted his head to fix John in a stare that seemed to say _isn’t obvious_? “Why,” Sherlock repeated back to John. “Because,” he paused as if he didn’t know how to put into words what he felt. But then he kissed John lightly and held John’s face in his hands, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. “Because John, you take care of me. No one else has, not the way you do. You’re a beautiful person, John.” Taking John’s silence for acceptance of his answer Sherlock resumed his mouthing at John’s neck, fingers creeping into John’s hair.

John’s mouth had gone dry. He couldn’t believe the words Sherlock was saying, ' _you’re a beautiful person'_ , John. It was too much and he would blame the tequila in the morning for he next words he spoke. “Perhaps” he said in between whines, “we should move this from the place where we eat.” Sherlock didn’t seem to mind where their very involved snogging took place as he rutted purposefully against John, eliciting another gasp from him. “Like my bedroom, perhaps,” he panted.

Sherlock finally relented in his glorious attack on his neck and stole another kiss from John before nodding and saying, “If you like.” Sherlock took John’s hand and lead him past the living room and nearly dragged him up the stairs where they spilled into the upper hallway clumsily. After regaining their footing John found himself pressed against the wall and Sherlock’s lips crushing his own.

Sherlock bit and sucked his lips relentlessly earning him John’s fingers gripping his hair and shoulders. John smiled into the kiss, “Think you can make it a few more feet before taking me?”

Sherlock responded by groaning into John’s mouth before ripping himself away and half leading, half dragging John to his bedroom. Once into the room John was tumbled onto the bed with Sherlock’s weight pressing into him. Sherlock returned to kissing John’s neck as he pulled John’s shirt from his waistband. “You know,” he said as he pulled John’s jumper over his head to leave a pale blue T-shirt behind, “I really dislike this jumper.” John laid back grinning and let Sherlock pull the undershirt over his head.

“Well, if the result of me wearing this particular jumper is you tearing it off of me I might make it a point of wearing it more often.”

A wicked grin spread across Sherlock’s face as he took in the sight of a shirtless John. His fingers gravitated to the shoulder baring his scar. “I quite like this one,” Sherlock said as he bent to kiss it. “It’s different from the ones on your face.”

John shivered and licked his lip, “I got that one the same day I got these,” he said gesturing to his face. It was half lie and half truth but there was no way to explain to Sherlock the technicalities of their origins, old and new.

“You’ll have to tell me the story some day.” Sherlock’s lip moved from John’s shoulder down the length of John’s chest down to where John’s trousers hugged his hips. Sherlock’s fingers deftly undid John’s belt and fly and John helped him slip off his pants and trousers. With John laid completely bare and aroused Sherlock stood back to admire the view.

“I rather dislike the inequity in the amount of clothing here,” John said as he pushed himself off the bed to stand before Sherlock. John unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and kissed each new inch of skin he uncovered, feeling the skin shiver beneath his lips. After shrugging the shirt off Sherlock’s shoulders John tipped his head up and kissed Sherlock deeply while undoing the fly on Sherlock’s trousers. In an instant they were skin to skin, arms wrapped around each other, lips locked. Sherlock gently pressed John to the mattress. Poised above John, Sherlock trailed a hand down John’s chest to his hip and down the length of his thigh. His nails raked lightly over John’s skin raising goosebumps as his hand traveled upwards toward John’s straining, leaking cock.

When Sherlock’s hand closed around him John sucked in a breath and bit his lip, unconsciously rocking into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock sucked John’s earlobe into his mouth before whispering, “I like seeing you this way John. You look your best when you’re naked and panting for me.” His words drew as many moans from John as his hand. Sherlock ran his tongue along the shell of John’s ear and blew lightly, causing John to arch and turn his head away. “Touch me, John.”

John was more than happy to oblige the order. His fingers closed around Sherlock’s leaking cock, stroking him and causing him to make some noise of his own. He knew he wouldn’t last long this way. Through half-lidded eyes he stared at Sherlock’s mouth picturing what it would feel like to have those lips around his cock. The image sent shivers across his body and he was already so close.

“Sherlock, if you,” John bit his lip to keep from groaning too loudly, “Oh god...fuck...”

Sherlock’s head was buried in John’s neck, “Don’t be shy. Tell me what you need John.”

“God I want,” he groaned and writhed, “I want your mouth,” John panted, “God I want those gorgeous lips around my cock, swallowing me.”

Without a word Sherlock slid down the length of John’s body trailing kisses and licks along his chest. When he got to John’s hardened length he stopped, kissing around the base and in the curve of his hips. Sherlock kissed the base of John’s cock before running his tongue from base to tip, achingly slow. John shivered and arched, gripping the sheet when Sherlock’s tongue teased his frenulum and cried out, his hips arching and writhing with the movement of Sherlock’s tongue.

“D-do we need a condom,” John asked, half proud of himself for remembering to ask and half insane at having momentarily stopped Sherlock to ask.

“Not unless you want one.”

John had made sure to get himself tested after his stint in the army. He was clean and hadn’t had the time nor desire since leaving the military’s employ to pursue anyone romantically. But what about Sherlock? John shook his head but asked, “What about you?”

Sherlock’s gaze was deep and intense, eyes burning into John. “I want to consume you,” Sherlock accompanied the statement with a playful suck of John’s head. “I would consume every inch of you if you let me. Every freckle, scar and molecule.” He kissed along John’s length, words leaving his lips between kisses. “If it’s me you’re worried about I’m in perfect health. So I ask you again,” his lips stopped above John’s head with his breath making John’s cock twitch. “Would you like a condom?”

All John could do was shake his head and groan in relief as Sherlock’s mouth sank down onto the head of his cock. “Fuck,” he gasped as Sherlock sucked. The wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth was almost too much. He knew he would be done for soon as Sherlock was doing his best to make him come apart with his tongue. John’s fingers curled into Sherlock’s hair, tugging slightly as he writhed “Fuck, fuck, Oh Christ,” John streamed half whispered half shouted curses until he felt delicious heat coil deep inside him and then he was coming, filling Sherlock’s mouth.

John lay back breathing heavily, eyes closed and body twitching in the aftermath of his climax. His eyes snapped open at the presence of Sherlock above him, kissing him back to reality. He moved his hand to Sherlock’s neglected cock and stroked as Sherlock’s hips bucked into his hand. John suddenly wanted to taste him, needed to taste him. He pushed Sherlock up and pushed him so that he laid on the bed. Positions reversed John immediately went to devour the man before him.

His lips stretched around Sherlock, sinking almost all the way to the base, Sherlock’s head meeting the back of his throat. He sucked deeply, running his tongue along the silky skin as he bobbed up. His hand joined his mouth to bring Sherlock closer and closer to the brink. Sherlock panted and whined until all of a sudden his whole body tensed and with one shout of, “John”, Sherlock came. John swallowed every bit of him and slid off Sherlock with a wet pop. John lay with his forehead against Sherlock’s stomach, feeling the man’s chest rapidly rise and fall. Sherlock dragged John’s face from his stomach to meet his face and kissed him thoroughly, their tongues tangling lazily in the afterglow.

After a moment of repositioning the pair found their heads cushioned by the pillows at the head of the bed. The lay apart on their backs, each regaining control of their breath. After a few minutes John turned on his side and propped himself on his arm to look down on Sherlock. “You’re welcome to stay. The bed is plenty big for two.”

Sherlock looked at him with unfocused eyes, as if he were somewhere else entirely. “If you like. I can stay until you fall asleep at least. Would you like that?”

John nodded and kissed Sherlock’s swollen lips lightly. “Goodnight, Sherlock.” John settled himself on the side facing Sherlock and closed his eyes, the arm not buried under his pillow draped over Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Goodnight John.”


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock awoke after a light sleep in a strange bed. After a moment he remembered where he was. He was in John’s room where he and John had most definitely been intimate only a few hours prior. He was very aware that the weight of John’s arm and the heat of his body pressed against him. He turned his head slowly and saw that John slept peacefully.

John was on his side facing him with his arm laid carelessly across Sherlock's chest, his legs splayed beneath the covers. John shifted in his sleep, the arm sliding across Sherlock’s chest to curl under the pillow. Sherlock was stilled with awe as he gazed upon a face that was completely devoid of scars and recognition hit him like a ton of bricks. He suspected he had met John before but with his face marred the way it was he could never be sure. Even when he had invaded Sherlock's own dream space he suspected. Now that his face was clear there was no mistaking John for who he was; the same man he had helped in the alley almost two weeks ago, John Watson.

He was fond of John from the start. His ability to stay calm and defend himself in the face of danger piqued his interest immediately. Not to mention the fact that John was quite fit for a man his age. Certainly rough around the edges but that, along with everything that John had done for him and Anderson and Lestrade, is what made him so wonderful. John was truly one of the most beautiful people Sherlock had ever met. He was everything Sherlock had wanted and never had the courage to attain.

He traced a finger along the now smooth skin needing to feel it to believe it. John’s skin was warm and soft. He suppressed the urge to kiss his cheek for fear of waking him. John shifted slightly and Sherlock’s eyes found John’s shoulder and there lay his only scar. He knew that one was different or else it would have vanished with the others. Hopefully one day John would tell him all about how it came to be and why it was different. There was only one thing that Sherlock could think of that could cause such a transformation. John was certainly cursed and he had a fair idea of who cursed him and why.

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away from the perfectly smooth cheek and settled on his back to stare at the ceiling, silent thoughts swirling around his head like a whirlwind. He knew this would eventually happen again. He would show some interest in someone and Moriarty would get involved and then he would have to cut and run again. But he never wanted to fight for any of the others the way he wanted to fight for John. He had always let the other men and women who crossed his path fend for themselves and deal with the consequences of their acquaintanceship with him alone. Their misfortune added to his reputation of being a monster and he did nothing to dissuade that. The reputation that followed him only made it easier to be left alone to do his all too necessary work. John was different though; he wanted to help John. He wanted to be with John. But until John broke the curse Moriarty placed on him it could never be. The curse would find ways to pull them apart, just like it had with him and Lestrade.

John made a muffled, sleepy sound before his eyes fluttered open. He smiled a shy, sleepy smile, “You stayed.”

“For a little while. You wore me out.” He turned to face John and made sure to steel his face at what he saw. John’s face remained clear and smooth. _Interesting_ , Sherlock mused to himself, determined not to bring attention to his face, lest he ruin the moment.

John chuckled lightly and turned on his stomach, face still turned to Sherlock. “That was nothing. You see should me sober,” John joked. His eyes closed again but he remained awake. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Do you truly trust me? I mean, enough to speak for you tomorrow?”

“Technically later today. And yes.” He reached out to John’s cheek but stopped himself before he grazed John’s face, instead settling his hand on John’s shoulder. “Completely. I trust in you like I never have in anyone else. How could I not trust someone who could make Lestrade behave?” John giggled softly and conceded his point. Silence enveloped them and soon they both fell back asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When John awoke again it was to an empty bed. He was still facing the side that had been facing Sherlock when they talked briefly after…

The smile came unbidden to his face and he covered it with his hand. He knew it was probably just the liquor that prompted Sherlock’s advances. He knew that Sherlock would probably not speak of it again but the memory of the way their lips pressed together made him smile in spite of himself. It would make it ultimately harder to leave here but at least he had one night to reminisce on.

John checked his watch and saw that it was time to be up. He rushed through his morning routine and ran downstairs to prepare something for Anderson to eat for breakfast. He didn’t have much time to eat anything himself so he just told Anderson to stay in the castle and do whatever work it was that he did and he would be back later.

“Got to see the Queen about a certain wizard we all know and love.”

Anderson made a face, “Speak for yourself. Know him, I do. But loving is another story.”

John chuckled and pat the young boy’s head before stepping out the portal and into the streets of London.

A quick walk to the tube and a crowded ride later he was outside the receiving entrance for the Royal Palace, summons and letter in hand. There were two stern looking blokes standing guard outside the door. Their presence and the lack of Sherlock’s made him nervous to begin his challenge. As he collected his thoughts in his head he heard a particularly insistent meow near the vicinity of his feet. John looked down to see a black cat with a reddish orange splash of fur over it’s left eye.

Looking around him to be sure there were no other spectators John bent down to be near eye to eye with the cat before him. “Sherlock,” John questioned.

“Mow,” was all the reply he got.

John was quite chuffed at the disguise.“Thought you didn’t like red hair,” he teased. “Well come on, then. Don’t want to keep Her Highness waiting.”

“Mow,” the cat replied and it led the way towards the guards.

John stepped up in front of them and presented his summons and said he was there on behalf of the Wizard Jenkins. He was the man’s uncle and ‘oh my, how unfortunate that my nephew should take ill when he had a summons but don’t worry, his uncle was on the case’. The guards gave him a bored once over and told him how to find the waiting area inside and resumed their watch of the street without another word to him.

The cat prowled on ahead, tail up and curling back and forth, leading John inside. The cat led him to a posh sitting room with a gold couch and a painting and other fancy brick-a-brack. While he waited the cat jumped into his lap and rubbed its head against his hand demanding pets. “Really now, you’re hamming it up a bit don’t you think?”

“Are you talking to that cat?”

John’s spine straightened at the familiar voice. John looked up from the feline in his lap and curled his lips into an unwelcome snarl. “Moriarty. To what do I owe the displeasure?”

Moriarty chuckled, “Come now. No hard feelings between us. It was so long ago I can hardly remember our disagreement.” The witch took a seat next to him and offered a hand to the cat. The cat sniffed the offered fingers, sneezed and pounced off John’s lap to curl up by John’s feet, licking one paw.

“I quite agree,” John said to the cat. He fixed Moriarty with a cold stare and clenched his teeth, “Well, since you suggest there are no hard feelings, then I suppose you wouldn’t mind removing this curse? I can be inclined to forgive such trespasses if you returned my face to it’s original state.”

“Afraid I can’t do that.” Moriarty crossed his legs and cupped a knee with his hands, “Once a curse has been set it’s up to the,” he paused to decide upon wording, “recipient-”

“Victim,” John interjected, “You mean.”

“Semantics,” Moriarty replied. “Unfortunate, I know, but I’m afraid you’re stuck that way until you find a way to break the curse.”

“How very helpful,” John spat back sarcastically. “Any hints you could offer on how to break this stupid curse?”

“Also no, sadly. Curses are a fickle thing and I have no idea how to break it.”

John huffed an annoyed breath through his nose and nodded angrily. “Well, if there’s no help you could offer me, and if you’re not here to inflict any more damage upon my person, might I ask what you are here for?”

Moriarty smiled and leaned in close to John. “Our dear Mycroft has a few questions for you and I am here to see that you find your way to him and that you answer his questions,” he examined his nails and gave him a cruel grin, “satisfactorily.”

John licked his lips and put on what he had hoped was a 'bring-it-on face', “Lead the way.” When he stood the cat got up and stalked ahead of the men towards a doorway on the right, Moriarty following the cat and John bringing up the rear. They walked down an equally richly decorated hallway and into a pretty in pink parlour. Moriarty gestured to a pearl and pink striped chair and told John to take a seat.

“I’ll show Mycroft in to you in a moment. Would you like anything while you wait? Cup of tea or some water perhaps?” John opened his mouth to reply, that no he would not like any tea and he knew exactly where he could shove the kettle as well, but Moriarty turned on his heel and left without hearing his answer. _Just as well_ , he thought. _Wouldn’t have helped my case anyway_.

The cat looked perfectly at home here in the almost sickeningly sweet parlour having jumped onto a sedan chair that was sitting beneath the window. The feline promptly stretched then curled into a snug little ball of fur, purring in the sunlight. “Comfortable,” John asked the cat and another low ‘mow’ was the only reply.

A couple moments later a smartly dressed man arrived clad in an elegantly tailored blue and white pinstripe, three-piece suit. “I’m sorry to keep you, John Watson was it?” The man extended his hand for John to shake.

“That’s right, John Watson.” John shook the man’s hand amicably, “Mycroft Holmes, I presume?” Then his brain caught up and hit him, _Watson_? “How do you know my last name, I don’t remembering telling Sherlock my last name?”

The man smiled a small, sly smile. “Is that so?” The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement, ”Well, as to that I have my sources. And guilty as charged, I am Mycroft Holmes. I do want to apologize for the lapdog our dear Queen had sent to fetch you. He can be,” Mycroft sighed, “Abrasive.”

“So I’ve noticed. Forgive me, but I thought it was the Queen herself I was supposed to see. Why would she send you to see me?”

“One moment and I will answer that very appropriate question.” Mycroft looked behind him to be sure there was no one lurking in the doorway. His fingers twitched in little jerks and circles and he hummed whispered words under his breath, eyes closed. When he finished his mutterings he opened his eyes and spoke. “Forgive me. I was just being sure that there was a privacy spell worked upon the room. Now,” he paused to collect his thoughts, “I suppose, no doubt, that Sherlock or at the very least Lestrade has told you of my very important position here at the palace?” John nodded and Mycroft continued. “Well, wouldn’t do to have any other the other birds and mice hearing our little twitterings now, would it?” John shook his head and Mycroft smiled.

“So why would the Queen send me instead of coming herself? The answer is that I am very high in her Majesty’s regard. Higher than Moriarty, even with all his scheming and carrying out her plots. I’ve been here a lot longer and I worked very hard to ingratiate myself in her Majesty’s good graces.” Mycroft paused and let out a breath. “Specifically why I’m here is because Sherlock warned me ahead of time of your coming, don’t ask me how. I intercepted the Queen’s questioning so that you would not have to lie to her and so you wouldn’t become a plaything for her new pet.” He pointed a finger at John’s face, “Though I see has already done a number on you. What’d you do anyway?”

“How did yo-”

“Please. Just because Sherlock’s magic is stronger doesn’t mean I’m blind to facts. I did a fair amount of research on you John Watson, and I know for a fact that those scars on your face were wiped clean approximately two years ago. Am I correct?”

“Yeah. We had...a misunderstanding and he threw a hissy fit in my face. Literally.”

“Yes well,” Mycroft said as he examined the gouges across John’s face. “Don’t worry, eventually he’ll get his recompense. Now for the real reason I am here. Where is Sherlock?”

John’s eyes flitted to the cat and then back to Mycroft. “I honestly have no idea.”

At that moment the cat decided to jump off the sedan and brush along Mycroft’s leg. Mycroft regarded the action with barely hidden disdain mixed with something akin to affection. “Misses Hudson, really, I enjoy your company but I just had this suit cleaned and you’re covering it in your detestable hairs again.”

“Misses Hudson,” John asked, eyebrow quirked in confusion.

“Yes, she's one of the palace's many cats. Though I do enjoy her company more than the others. She has such a delightful personality.” He pat the little cat’s head then drew his eyes to John again. “Where is Sherlock?”

“Again, I have no idea. He sent me here to tell you and the Queen that he most certainly was not joining the ranks no matter the incentive and then he said something very rude about the Queen. Something about releasing the hounds or something.”

Mycroft chuckled, “Sherlock always was a stubborn one. Do me a little favor would you?” John nodded in the affirmative. “Keep an eye out for my brother. I know he can be quite the difficult arse but he is family.” Just then Mycroft stiffened and pressed a finger to his lips, the universal sign to _‘shut your screaming howler’_. “I’m afraid our private chat is over.”

A second later Moriarty swept into the room carrying a tray of tea. “Her Majesty sends her regards and also a pot of one of her favorites. A good English rose tea. I find it rather dull but what the Queen wants, the Queen gets.” Moriarty busied himself with fixing two cups of tea. He handed one to Mycroft who sniffed it appreciatively before taking a sip. He handed John the second cup and John took a sip.

It was perfect. Then it dawned on him. The way the man moved, the way he spoke, there was none of the crackling, intense energy that surrounded the man before him. That wasn’t Moriarty. His eyes flashed to Moriarty’s face and was received with a wink. _Oh bloody, sodding hell that’s Sherlock. Discrete disguise my arse!_ John calmed his racing pulse by drinking deeply from the teacup. “Quite good,” John said testily, “must give her my sincere compliments.”

“I’ll see she gets them, John. Now, what were we talking about?”

“Yes, yes,” a voice from the doorway said, “What were we talking about?”

_Bloody fucking hell!_

Mycroft looked up from his tea seemingly unaffected by the sight of two identical Moriartys currently occupying the room. Mycroft lazily gestured to the Moriarty who was positioned by the tea but spoke to the one standing near the doorway, “Moriarty, I do believe you’ve met my brother.” Then he drained his tea and placed the cup on the table next to him and faced his brother. “Really Sherlock? I would have thought you would be better at glamours and disguises by now.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed an exaggerated sigh, dropping the glamour. “I am a master of disguise, brother. You never knew it was me until the royal lapdog came calling.”

“John knew it was you,” Mycroft quipped.

Sherlock just huffed and John was caught staring at everyone all at once, eyes darting from the real Moriarty to Sherlock to Mycroft; even Misses Hudson who had taken to cleaning the fur on her back legs during the shocking exchange between humans.

“John’s special,” Sherlock beamed and came to stand behind John, his hands resting on his shoulders. Moriarty’s face crumbled into a scowl at hearing Sherlock’s praise towards the other man, his eyes following Sherlock with a deep glower. “So gentlemen, you have me. Fair and squarely caught. What comes now?”

Moriarty spoke up from the doorway, “Now you take your rightful place in Her Majesty’s Special Reserves Supernatural Army. And, if you’re lucky, she’ll let you keep your memories.”

Sherlock smiled and gripped John’s shoulders, and the cat jumped into John’s lap. John had a sinking feeling that Sherlock wasn’t about to give up so easily and that he was going to attempt some kind of risky escape.

“Well I do hate to disappoint but I have no intention of joining. Conscientious objector, you see. Now if you’ll excuse us I do believe John and I will be going.” Sherlock looked at his brother and nodded his head, “Always good to see you, fatty.”

“See you around, bastard,” Mycroft replied as he poured himself another cup of tea. Next thing he knew, the risky escape he predicted manifested in the manner of himself, the cat and Sherlock flying towards and then through the window and falling six stories, very quickly towards the ground. “Sherlock,” John screamed and he gripped the cat tightly, his own body being gripped by Sherlock’s powerful arms. His stomach was in his throat, cutting off all further ability to scream.

Then all of a sudden they were not obliterated on the pavement. Rather they were soaring above the buildings and not dead. Not dead. The cat wasn’t even concerned with their sudden flight. She just gripped John’s shirt with her claws and purred quietly into John’s chest. Such an odd cat.

Sherlock whispered in his ear, “You did well back there.”

“But nothing went right! They knew who you were and they’re not just going to let us leave without a fight.”

“You’re right. There’s some of the Queen’s birds behind us right now.”


	12. Chapter 12

John twisted and craned his neck to get a view of the six bird-men following them; three hawks, an eagle, a heron and what looked like a fat pigeon. “Are you fucking kidding me, Sherlock?” John was angry, scared and incredibly exhilarated all at the same time, the emotions blending together to make him feel more alive than he had ever felt since he left the war.

“Now why would I kid about such a thing,” Sherlock teased. John turned awkwardly to try to read Sherlock’s face. Sherlock showed no outward signs of unease, his face a smiling, cool mask. John noticed that he had sprouted a mane of ebony feathers that framed his face in strange but incredibly fascinating manner. He felt the wind comb through his hair as they glided and the beat of Sherlock’s wings that carried them further and further from the palace, the streets and buildings whizzing by insanely fast beneath his feet. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation until reality dragged him back with the sound of a gunshot.

John’s body automatically tensed but he didn’t cry out. Gunshots he was used to, just not in London. _Breathe, just breathe,_ he coached himself. _Sherlock will get you out of this and then you can yell at him for turning you into a potential target practice dummy for the maniacs following you._ “How do we get out of here, Sherlock?”

“Same way we came in. Through the front door. But first,” he paused speaking to John to mutter some words in a language he couldn’t understand and then there was a violent jolt, a sound like tearing fabric and then they were dropping altitude drastically. John’s stomach flew to his throat cutting off all sound and it was a good thing too because then Sherlock’s hand was covering John’s mouth and a few moments later his voice was in his ears. “Sorry for that, John. I just sent a copy of us and those idiots on a wild goose chase. As long as they continue to fall for it we should be fine.”

“Should be fine?”

Sherlock grinned at John, “There’s always variables but yes, should be fine.”

“Well just great,” John sarcastically spat and rolled his eyes. “I feel loads safer!”

“Thought you might.”

 _Cheeky bastard_ , John internally chided. “How’s our new guest?”

John was confused for a moment until he remembered the cat cradled in his arms. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson’s having a grand ol’ time. I think she’s sleeping.”

Sherlock chuckled and said, “I certainly have missed that cat. Glad she decided to join us.”

John didn’t ask how he had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Hudson had made the conscious decision to come home with them-

 _Wait. Home?_ John’s heart pounded even harder in his chest. _How could the palace be home already?_ It was only a couple days, a couple of chance encounters, it wasn’t his home was it? Sherlock, Lestrade, Anderson, they weren’t his family. His only family was a drunk of a sister and his home was the lonely flat above his clinic. _My clinic. Will I ever go back or will I just hide away, forever trying to break this curse?_ Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. “Sh-Sherlock?”

Sherlock immediately sensed his unease, “What’s the matter, John?”

“Are we safe to walk? I-” he sucked in air and tried to continue, “I need some air and this flying...I’m-”

“Of course,” Sherlock said at once.

In a moment their feet were planted on the ground, safe and sound in an alley. The moment his feet touched the ground John dropped the cat and fell back against a wall trying to catch his breath, head turned to the sky and eyes shut tight. Sherlock gripped his shoulders, “John what’s the matter? One moment your heart was happy and then all of a sudden you were panicking. I could feel it.” He captured John’s head and tried to make John look at him, “John Watson you look at me this instant.”

Hearing Sherlock shout his last name at him made himself pry his eyes open and look at the man before him. _He knows who I am. He knows. Of course he knows._. Suddenly everything made sense; the reason Sherlock allowed him into his home, the reason for his advances and Sherlock’s trust in him. He had felt a connection at their first meeting too, _oh god_. John licked his lips, composure slowly returning. John’s knees abruptly turned to water and he found himself sliding down the wall until his bottom met the ground. Sherlock crouched in front of him, one hand still cupping his cheek. The other was pressed firmly into John’s chest to feel his racing heart.

Finally John found his words. “I was thinking of my clinic.” John shook his head, knowing it wasn’t the whole truth. The whole truth was that he had become comfortable with Sherlock and the two other amazing people residing in the palace. The realization that he felt more at home living with them for less than a month than he did living in his solitary flat for three years sucked the air from him. Of course the looming, undecided fate of the clinic was present but that seemed small potatoes to the realization that he didn’t want to leave Sherlock and he didn’t know how his feelings had snuck up on him so quickly.

“Your clinic?”

“Yes. I run a non-profit clinic in Marylebone. But I left because Moriarty cur-” And then his lips slammed shut. He wanted to tell him, oh god, how he wanted to tell him. But that was against the rules. He was so frustrated he could scream. All at once he had gone from panicked and scared for the future to absolutely wroth with frustration and contempt for a certain witch. He knocked his head back against the wall in frustration, the resulting jolt of pain barely registering. “If I ever seen that bitch of a man-witch again I’ll bloody well kill him.” He struggled to his feet with Sherlock crowding him, a look of concern still written on his face and while helped him rise and John growled, “Fucking kill him. This is all his ever loving, fucking fault!”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock softly uttered.

He had a strong desire to just shout _‘Moriarty fucking cursed me with this ugly face and I can’t believe you were interested even for a second in kissing this face when the one he destroyed was the one you were interested in in the first place and it was decidedly unfair’._ But the curse forbid him from opening his mouth when the words on his lips would explain all. All he could do was nod and hope that he confirmed Sherlock’s unspoken question.

Sherlock’s face suddenly split into a wide grin and he laughed a frantic, elated laugh. John’s face when hearing the laugh was one of pure, utter confusion. “What may I ask is so funny?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock wheezed. “Absolutely nothing. It’s all completely insane. Fucking Moriarty.” His laugh slowly came under control and stopped but the smile remained. “We’re not so different you and I, my friend. Moriarty has a lot to atone for.” He took John by the shoulders and spun him around, “Trust me. I know exactly how you feel.”

“You do?”

“Personal experience with the beast himself.”

John smiled, remembering the conversation that he and Lestrade had about Moriarty and his famous curses, and rubbed the back of his head where it was sore from John’s earlier frustrations. “I think I’m okay now. We can walk back if you like. Or we could grab a cab if you prefer.”

“I stretched my wings already but I believe my legs could do with a bit of a stretch as well. Come John,” he gestured to the street, “Lets go home.” Sherlock searched the alley for a moment for the cat and called to the her as she had found a perch on the brick wall behind them, and headed to the street. When John didn’t follow immediately he stopped and turned to John, “Coming?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, “Home. Good.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After nice long walk the two men, side by side, reached the door that would take them back to the palace. Sherlock opened the door and ushered a tired John inside. By the time they had reached the mind palace it was late in the afternoon and neither of them were fit for much more than a nice long sit. John was used to being on his feet all day, no stranger to the stiffness in his feet or his calves, but he was not used to the excess of emotional tugging he had just endured. Once inside the door John slipped off his jacket and shoes, leaving them where they fell and made his way to the couch and flopped down face first into the cushiony leather.

“Rough day there, scarface,” Lestrade asked.

With a groan John answered, “You could say that again. Nearly had a bleedin’ heart attack.”

“Queen that intimidating, was she?”

Sherlock appeared behind the couch, resting his weight against the back of it, “Actually the Queen had made herself scarce. My ever-so meddlesome brother poked his nose in and had a lovely chat with our dear John.”

Lestrade’s eyebrow quirked, “Our John?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, “Our John.” Then he looked down at John and tapped his legs, “Scoot over, I want that seat too.”

“Hmph, there’s chairs too, you know,” John complained but rolled onto his back and scooted so he was leaning against the arm of the couch and brought his knees up to his chest to make room.

“Yes but Mrs. Hudson has occupied one, and besides, I wouldn’t be able to do this from a chair.” Sherlock seated himself and tugged John’s feet over his lap. He took John’s socks off and started to rub John’s right foot. An involuntary groan escaped him. He couldn’t remember ever having someone rub his feet. Ever. It was an oddly delightful feeling.

“Mmm...what did I do to deserve this?”

Sherlock thought a moment. “Call it my way of making it up to you for having to meet my brother.” His hands slid along the skin of his foot, pressing firmly but gently along the arch of John’s foot making John sigh contentedly. “Really, that was the most unfortunate event of the whole adventure I must say. He’s such a bore.”

Sherlock’s thumb rubbed circles into John’s heel and the sensation made John’s toes curl, bringing a smile to Sherlock’s lips. “Really? I found your brother rather pleasant considering.” He groaned as Sherlock started in on the other foot, thumb pressing into the sore spots. “You didn’t find the mid-flight shooting at all distressing?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Lestrade interjected. “Shooting? Flying? What the hell happened at the palace?”

The two filled Lestrade in on the events of the day much to his great displeasure of missing all the excitement. “I miss all the good stuff! Curse my existence! It gets so boring here alone you should really invest in a telly, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted at the thought, “Why? Big distracting piece of furniture. What use would I have for a telly?”

“Didn’t say it was for you, did I?”

“You got the money to spend on mindless frivolities? By all means I’d buy one for you if you did.”

Lestrade huffed and crossed his arms, “You know as well as I do that I don’t.”

“Such a shame,” Sherlock teased. “Pratt,” Lestrade stuck out his tongue and buried himself in his logs muttering about how he would read books but unfortunately him and paper didn’t end well.

Sherlock smiled lightly and leaned back into the couch. “How does food sound,” Sherlock asked John.

The mention of food, any food, made John’s stomach growl loudly, demanding to be heard. He hadn’t eaten all day which was unlike him. “I could eat.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient in waiting for the next update. Life suddenly got really hectic and left no time for writing. But hopefully from here on I'll be making regular updates. As always, thanks for reading and hope you're enjoying!

After the flurry of unsettling activity of the day John wanted nothing more than take a proper day to rest and not think about or do anything. He said as much as he helped Sherlock prepare their dinner.

“You mean doing absolutely nothing productive? For a whole day?” Sherlock made a face as if he smelled something foul. “Sounds dreadful.”

John skirted around him with a plate full of sandwich and glass of water and took his place at the table. “Most people consider a day of rest to be healthy.”

Sherlock joined him with his own plate and took a big bite. “I most certainly am not one of them. What,” he said around another mouthful, “on earth would I do with a day off?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” John chided tenderly, “And I could think of a couple things to occupy your time with.” He ended the statement with a grin and suggestive eyebrow waggle.

The men chewed the rest of their sandwiches in comfortable silence. After they finished, John took their dishes and started washing them and it wasn’t long before he felt Sherlock’s arms envelope him followed by Sherlock burying his face in John’s neck. “I thought you were wanting to relax,” he said as he trailed feather-light kisses along John’s neck, sending shivers down his spine.

John closed his eyes and sighed happily, leaning into Sherlock’s body, “I was talking about tomorrow.” He felt his hands drop the plate he was washing and move independently to cover Sherlock’s arms.

“Your hands are wet,” whispered against his ear.

“They were doing your dishes.”

“The dishes can wait.” Without another word Sherlock spun John to face him and kissed the man slow and deep, little gasps and sighs escaping them. John brushed the curls back from Sherlock’s face and he pulled away to look into his eyes.

“Right then,” John started, “Forget the dishes, much rather spend the rest of the day in bed anyway.”

Sherlock smiled warmly and traced John’s jawbone with his fingertip, “I might be persuaded.”

John slipped from Sherlock’s embrace and headed towards the stairs, adding a little extra swagger to his walk. He felt absolutely ridiculous for about five seconds and then Sherlock was right behind him, arms around his waist. “That easy, huh?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock replied.

“Make me.”

Sherlock gripped him tightly and bent his head to suck an earlobe into his mouth and John’s knees abruptly went weak. He bit his lip to suppress a whine before asking, “Your room or mine?”

Sherlock froze and John was worried he had said something wrong. He let John go, John’s whole body screaming at the loss, and headed up the stairs without a word. _Bloody brilliant, Watson. Had to go and open your big stupid mouth._ He knew that Sherlock never let anyone in his room, he should’ve known that even the suggestion wouldn’t go over well.

Sighing deeply and kicking himself internally John headed up the stairs after listening for Sherlock’s footsteps to die away. He would just go to his room and sulk and maybe tomorrow he could try to recapture their brief moments of playfulness. He walked down the hall and didn’t even register the door to Sherlock’s room was open until he heard his name being called from it.

He stopped dead in his tracks and backed up, thoroughly confused. Sherlock’s door was in fact open and inside he found Sherlock sitting stiffly on the very edge of a beautifully carved, wooden four poster bed that was covered with a deep red comforter. John hovered at the door frame unsure of whether or not stepping into the room would be seen as invading personal space.

“You can come in, you know?” Sherlock seemed sincere but nervous.

“Are you sure?” John rubbed a hand along the door frame and looked at his feet refusing to make eye contact. “Anderson tells me you never let anyone in.”

“You’re not anyone, John. You’re someone.”

 _You’re someone._ John was floored. He couldn’t believe it even when Sherlock got up and crossed the room to take his hand and lead him in. It took Sherlock grabbing him by the shoulders and pressing him into the bed and kissing him to finally process what was happening. When Sherlock’s kisses softened and stopped John was finally able to look around the room and fully grasp the piece of Sherlock’s life he had been allowed.

It was nothing like the gloomy tunnel that his dream conjured. The room was, in every way, Sherlock; it was cluttered and chaotic but felt very much like home. Every wall except for one was lined with shelves filled with a thousand books, scientific equipment and what he assumed was magical instruments with papers and clothing tucked into every nook and cranny. One shelf had the odd decoration of a large human skull and a taxidermied badger bookending that shelf’s row of books. There was so much to take in on the walls he almost didn’t notice that there was a window that took up most of one wall and it was framed in beautifully embroidered red and black curtains. It was beautiful and fit Sherlock entirely.

He knew that opening up this piece of his life was huge for Sherlock and to reward him John pulled him close and kissed him thoroughly. “I like it. It suits you.”

“I hoped you would like this version. When you saw it the first time...it was a rough day.”

“First time?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember dreaming about following you into your room. But it was only a dream, wasn’t it?”

“Not entirely. Remember what I said to you before? This room is my dream, I can make of it what I want. Actually,” he paused, “This whole palace is my dream. And you broke through all my defenses and were able to see me at my most vulnerable. No one has ever been able to do that.” Sherlock ran a hand along John’s chest, stopping just over his heart. “That’s how I know that you’re someone special. Not just to me but in general, you’re a wonder John Watson.”

“But,” John stammered, ”I’ve never been anything but ordinary. Sure, I’m an accomplished doctor but so are thousands of other people. I survived a war that’s destroyed thousands but so have others. I’m just...ordinary.”

Sherlock stared at the doctor with an intensity that hurt, “Not to me.” And then, as if to prove it, he grabbed John’s head in his hands and pressed crushing kisses into his lips, as if bruising them would imprint Sherlock’s unrelenting belief in the man onto John. John’s chest felt tight with a warmth so intense and he couldn’t quite name it. It wasn’t love yet, though he most certainly knew he was falling, and it was more than respect or pride. Whatever it was he never wanted to stop feeling it.

Soon the familiar feeling of arousal accompanied his warm fuzzy feelings and their kiss, which had been unhurried and only slightly more than chaste, turned once again into a hungry, desperate fire. After a minute of fumbling with their clothes they lay pressed against each other with nothing between them. Skin brushed skin causing both of them to shiver and pant.

John raked his nails down Sherlock’s back causing breath to hitch and his hips to jerk, their erections brushing together in delicious friction. John curled one hand into Sherlock’s curls and one around his hip, grinding their bodies together as they kissed. Sherlock whined when John’s thumb barely brushed his cock and that sent a shiver of desire through John’s whole body. “John,” Sherlock panted against the man’s lips.

“Sherlock,” John replied as he moved his fingertips to Sherlock’s length, ghosting them along the hot, silky skin.

“I want you,” Sherlock groaned. He gently brushed John’s hand aside to take both their cocks in large hands, drawing a gasp from the two men in unison. “I want to take you” he continued, “and fuck you until you can’t remember anything but my name.” He punctuated the statement with a kiss that made John dizzy. “I want you in me too.”

John’s eyes snapped open at the wizard’s confession. Sherlock just went right on without acknowledging John’s shock. “I want you to fuck me, leave marks on me, claim me like no one else has.”

John’s voice quivered, “Like no one else has?”

“I’ve had other lovers but you would be the first person that I allowed to get this close, John. The first person I ever wanted to take me.” He gazed deeply into his lover’s eyes, “That is of course,” he said as he ran his thumb over the slit of John’s head, “if you are so inclined.”

John could see Sherlock’s desire fighting with vulnerability, emotion flickering in his eye; he was telling the truth. John reached up to cup Sherlock’s cheek and drew it down for a soft kiss. “Are you sure?”

“Never been more sure of anything in my life.”

John searched the man’s eyes for any trace of doubt and finding none he swiftly rolled them over so he was perched over Sherlock. He kissed Sherlock deeply as he took up the stroking motions that Sherlock had abandoned. He trailed kisses along Sherlock’s jaw line to his ear and sucked an earlobe into his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before whispering, “You tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

Sherlock keened at John’s deft working of their cocks and panted, “It’s not like I’m a bloody virgin, John. Now get on with it before I change my mind and have my way with you instead.”

John scoffed, “Like that’s such a threat.” Sherlock lurched forward and bit his shoulder to urge John on and that was that. “Lube?”

Sherlock’s hand scrabbled towards the edge of the bed where a nightstand resided. His fingertips managed to brush the drawer handle and draw it out a bit and John leaned over to rummage for and procure a small bottle of lube. He poured a generous dollop on his fingers, smearing it for the best coverage before hovering above Sherlock for briefest of kisses then sliding down the length of the wizard’s body, stopping just above his very hard cock.

John started his prep by reaching up and grabbing a pillow to shove under Sherlock’s hips. Once the pillow was situated John kissed the inside of Sherlock’s thigh as he rubbed circles against Sherlock’s entrance with his forefinger, dipping it ever so slightly, feeling the muscles beginning to relax before sliding his finger fully inside. Sherlock tensed at the intrusion but softened when John combined the stretched feeling with the warmth of his breath against his cock. He whined in anticipation and canted his hips ever so slightly in signal to John to get a bloody move on it. John worked his finger in and out, feeling the muscles stretch ever so slightly before adding a second finger.

He mouthed at the head of Sherlock’s cock as he scissored his fingers inside the writhing man. Breathy moans and jerking hips urged the doctor on and in a matter of moments three fingers were buried in Sherlock and when John brushed his prostate the man cried out in pleasure. “Fuck, John,” he cried into his fist. Each lap and swirl of his tongue tore panting whines and rolling growls of desire from Sherlock's mouth, each one shooting straight to John's dick.

“Ah John, please,” he groaned, writhing beneath him, pleading. He bucked into John’s hand and John smiled around Sherlock's cock, deciding to take mercy on the poor man. He ran his tongue from base to tip just once before removing his fingers and settling himself above Sherlock.

He teased the head of his cock against Sherlock’s entrance, pausing to run his thumb on the underside of Sherlock's cock as he traced the wizard's hole with the head of his now very hard, leaking cock.

“Stop being such a tease,” he growled and gripped John’s arse to try to pull John into him.

John guided one of Sherlock’s legs onto his shoulder, spreading him beautifully. “So impatient,” he said smiling as he poured more lube onto his aching cock before he slowly entered Sherlock. The man tensed ever so slightly, digging his nails into John’s arse as John, inch by inch, buried himself. When he bottomed out he stilled a moment to let the man get used to the stretch of him.

“John move,” Sherlock pleaded. He tried to shift his hips but John had him pressed into the pillow and mattress beneath them and he whined with need.

And then John moved. He pulled out slowly before thrusting into him again with more force than the first time, making Sherlock cry out. “Fuck, yes….oh John...”

John picked up his pace and soon they were a frenzy of movement. John felt Sherlock’s hands everywhere; cupping his arse to draw him in, raking down his back, gripping his hair. He couldn’t get enough of it all.

“Christ Sherlock,” he gasped, “You feel so fucking good.” He punctuated the statement with a particularly amorous thrust, drawing a cry from Sherlock. “I’ll never get enough of you, you ridiculous man"

Gasping, Sherlock said against John’s lips, “Touch me, please.” His head fell back, eyes closed, teeth biting into his lips, his face looking so debauched John nearly lost control. Sherlock took John’s hand from where it had been gripping the man’s thigh to his leaking cock, a high-pitched whine escaping him before being bitten back. 

John couldn't wait any longer, and apparently Sherlock couldn't either, he suddenly needed to see Sherlock come apart. Sliding his hand along Sherlock's length, thumbing his head, he whispered in the wizard's ear, "That's it love, come for me.”

Sherlock nodded and whined as John gave a little twist of his wrist. A few more thrusts, a few more pumps and twists of his hand and Sherlock was coming apart spectacularly beneath him, John’s name torn from his lips as he came.

John curled his unsullied hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck and slammed into his lover once more and then he was done for. He came hard, emptying himself into Sherlock. The intensity of his orgasm knocked the wind from him and he collapsed onto the man beneath him. John pressed kisses into the damp skin of Sherlock’s neck, collar bone, cheeks and finally his lips. When they were absolutely breathless they broke apart, their foreheads pressed together as they tried to regain their breath.

Almost glacially, John rolled off him to reach for his discarded shirt to wipe his hand and Sherlock’s chest before settling beside him. “That was,” John started in between gasps for air.

“Yeah,” Sherlock finished for him.

When John propped himself up to look into his lover’s eyes he saw Sherlock staring off into space again, deep in thought. Just like last time. He leaned down to touch their foreheads together and closed his eyes, “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

Sherlock sighed softly and nodded ever so slightly. “Quite alright, John.” Then he smiled and said with humor in his voice, “How could I be anything else after being so thoroughly fucked by you?”

John chuckled, “Fair enough. Are you tired?”

“Very.”

“Want to go to sleep?”

“Very much.”

“Okay. Right then,” John made to slide out of bed when Sherlock grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

“Please stay?”

Happiness and most certainly love radiated through John and he couldn’t say anything but yes. “Of course.” He lay back down and pulled Sherlock into his arms and kissed him softly.

Sherlock yawned and snuggled into John’s chest. “Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight Sherlock.” _I love you,_ he added silently, full well knowing that no matter what happened from here on out that he would never be able to just leave and go back to the way things were. For better or worse he had fallen for this insensible but wonderful man. His only hope is that Sherlock felt the same and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to leave him, or Lestrade and Anderson and the Palace, behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter used to have French in it but after being corrected on the language I thought about how necessary it was to have it being used since it has no bearing anywhere else in my story. In the end I decided to write the sexy bits without it. But a big thank you to Hyna who provided the revised translations anyway. Hopefully the new revision will make the scene smoother. Thanks all for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

_~John Dreams~_

John found himself sitting underneath an enormous oak tree in the middle of a field, staring off into the distance when the realization slowly came to him that he was dreaming. Had to be dreaming; how else could he be seeing the scene before him unfold?

He watched as a young Sherlock, no more than sixteen, was laughing and making the local flora float in the air. He was laughing, so carefree and happy and entirely unlike the Sherlock he knew. Even more shocking was who he was laughing with. It was undoubtedly the young, and somewhat gawky looking, Moriarty. He looked to be a couple years younger than Sherlock and not nearly as adept at magic as his counterpart. While Sherlock’s leaves and flowers were swirling in an artificial updraft beautifully Moriarty’s single leaf was struggling to get more than a foot off the ground. After the boy let out an exasperated sigh he let the leaf flutter to the ground. “I’ll never get this right,” he complained.

“Like this,” Sherlock explained, taking the younger boy’s hand, “You’re forcing it. You have to feel the magic flow through you. Don’t push it.” He placed the discarded leaf in Moriarty’s hand and flattened the boy’s palm. “Think of something happy and direct the energy towards the leaf.”

The young Moriarty closed his eyes, face full in thought. Then his face softened and a smile broke out and when he opened his eyes the leaf was steadily floating upwards to tangle with Sherlock’s cloud of plant life. “Whoa, it worked.” Moriarty jumped into Sherlock’s arms and hugged him tightly, “Thank you! You’re so good at this! I’ll never be as good!”

“Who knows,” Sherlock said as he disentangled Moriarty from his torso so he could focus on making the cloud of leaves and flowers dance beautifully before sending them off in a final wind to scatter across the field they were in, “You just might surprise us both.”

Abruptly the scene bled out like ink in water and then John was watching Sherlock and Moriarty through a window of a very old, but lavishly decorated home. John noticed the picture from the attic, of young Mycroft and Sherlock and the little puppy, sitting on the mantel above the fireplace. This was Sherlock’s childhood home.

The sound was muffled and John couldn’t understand anything. He pressed a hand to the window and when his hand went through without shattering the glass or alerting the men on the other side he pressed the rest of him through the membranous dream window and then his ears were assaulted with screaming. “But I love you, Sherlock!”

“You don’t love me! You love my talents and my family’s money and connections. We were friends and I was fine with that but don’t you dare tell me you want anything more from me than what my status can provide!”

Moriarty looked as if he had been slapped, “Were friends?” Tears welled up in his eyes and threatened to spill over.

“Yes,” Sherlock growled, “Were. You had to try to reach for something that was not yours to have.” He turned his back, eyes peering into the fire raging in the fireplace. “Now, if you please, leave.”

“B-but Sherlock,” Moriarty tried in vain.

“Get out!”

Inkwater enveloped the dream again and John was watching a group of cops gathered around a body laying in the gutter. John was facing their backs, watching them shift and whisper to each other and when a voice shouted from out of view. John turned his head towards the noise and was shocked with what he saw.

A younger, human Lestrade.

He took over the scene immediately, pushing people out of the way to observe the body, writing notes and muttering things to the people nearby. He was so in the zone he didn’t notice, and John almost missed it as well, Sherlock watching him from behind the crime tape. Sherlock in a very large black coat like on the day they first met with a blue scarf neatly wrapped around his neck. The other officers who had surrounded Lestrade dispersed in favor of something more interesting to do and then Sherlock made his move.

He ducked under the tape and walked right up to Lestrade and startled him, “You know whatever you’re thinking you’re wrong.”

“Oh Jesus,” Lestrade spat, dropping his notebook in the mud and spun around, almost landing on his arse, to face a very smug looking Sherlock. “Are you supposed to be here?”

“Probably not. But no one’s stopped me yet. You going to be the first?”

“Bloody well right I am,” he took Sherlock by the shoulder and roughly tugged him back towards the police line.

“But then you’ll never figure out who did it.”

“Like hell I won’t, it’s my job.”

“At which you’re poor. Do you want to know what really happened?”

Just before they got to the police line Lestrade stopped short and looked into Sherlock’s eyes, “What makes you so sure I’m going to get it wrong?”

Sherlock smiled, “Because you’re a cop. But since I like the look of you I’ll tell you how it really happened.” Then he brushed the older man’s hand off his coat and mocked dusting his sleeve, “Over a pint perhaps?”

Lestrade’s mouth hung open for so long John thought that he was starting to resemble a caught fish before he hissed, “You tromped through a crime scene just to hit on me?”

“And to tell you what you’ve missed.”

He added a cheeky grin and then Lestrade’s face finally lost it’s seriousness and broke out in a smile. Lestrade caved, “Fine. But go. Now. Before my boss sees you. There’s a pub down the street. I’ll meet you there in ten.”

The scene shifted to a quiet, painfully British pub. Sherlock was nursing a pint in a darkened corner when Lestrade strode in. The older man ordered a pint at the bar, paid the bartender and took a seat across from Sherlock. “Spill it,” he barked at Sherlock before taking a swallow of beer.

“It was the wife. She discovered he was using the family funds to procure hookers of a particularly dirty variety. You’ll find that he has contracted something nasty in his autopsy. He passed it onto the wife. That, and I’m sure following him on one such trip, is how she put two and two together.” Sherlock paused and took a sip of beer and continues. “Perfect example of why you shouldn’t sleep with anyone who doesn’t have verifiable references.” Then he winked and Lestrade choked on his beer.

John had to laugh at that. _Sherlock winking, and actually flirting. What a novelty!_

The picture clouded over with rapid fire images of Sherlock and Lestrade sharing coffee, drinking in other pubs, strolling through the park and finally sharing a very long, passionate kiss.

The last image hit John in the gut. The bottom dropped out. He now knew why Sherlock and Lestrade were cursed. It was obvious and he didn’t want to see any more. But the images came anyway.

The dream shifted again to Sherlock and Lestrade walking down the street arm in arm, cheeks flushed from cold, snowflakes in their hair.

“It’s fucking freezing Sherl,” Lestrade complained.

 _Sherl_ , John scoffed. Hard to imagine anyone giving Sherlock a nickname.

“Come now, Greg. It’s not that cold.”

“I’m freezing my bollocks off!”

Sherlock giggled _-giggled!-_ and drew Lestrade closer. “Stop your whining Lessy. I have a surefire way to warm you up when we get back to your flat.”

John followed them as they walked through a door and up the stairs. Watched as Lestrade grabbed Sherlock’s hips and pulled him close. Watched as they kissed and started tearing at each other’s clothes. John tore his eyes away, not wanting to watch such an intimate scene; which is how his eyes spied Moriarty hiding in the shadows long before they did. “Sherlock,” he tried to warn but even to his own ears it sounded like he was speaking underwater. It was no use, he just had to watch. He knew what was coming.

“Well, well, well,” Moriarty said before stepping into the light and startling the snogging men. “Looky, looky here. I can certainly see his appeal, Sherlock. For one night anyway.”

Sherlock pushed Lestrade behind him, out of Moriarty’s line of sight. “What are you doing here, Jim?”

“It’s Moriarty now. Just Moriarty. Trims the fat. You know all about trimming fat don’tcha Sherlock?”

“What’s he talking about, Sherlock? What the hell is he doing in my flat?” “Oh how cute,” Moriarty said. “The little pet has found his voice. Well, I’ll tell you what I’m talking about.” He walked up to Sherlock and eyed him before bringing a finger to his face and flicking to one side. The movement resulted in Sherlock being flung to the couch on the other side of the room and knocking the wind out of him. When Sherlock tried to rise Moriarty held a palm out in his direction and pinned him with an immobilization spell.

Once Sherlock was effectively immobilized he returned his gaze to Lestrade. “Let me tell you a story about a boy who was in love. He was in love with a genius of magic.” He turned to Sherlock and sneered, “I really did love you for you, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sherlock spat back.

Moriarty huffed at the comment and continued. “Then one day the boy revealed his undying love for his best friend and magical mentor and was rejected cruelly. Started out nice enough, ‘You’re a brother to me’, ‘I don’t feel that way’, ‘You don’t really love me’...and then he turned cruel and threw me out and never spoke to me again. The fat effectively trimmed.” He paused and sighed. “But I kept up with you. Oh yes, watched you as you excelled and as you developed this adorable affection for humans. Honestly, what’s the draw to them? They’re so boring.”

Lestrade picked that moment to pipe up, fear coloring his voice, “Magic? What’re you talking about? You’re daft. Absolutely daft.”

“Am I? Not a believer are we? Even after what I just did to your...boyfriend?” Moriarty raised his other hand and touched Lestrade’s chest.

“What’re you doing? Why does it burn?” Lestrade’s face crinkled in pain as sweat broke out on his forehead and he tried to push Moriarty’s hand off his chest.

“It’s so cold out,” Moriarty said through a tight, fake grin. “Trying to help you warm up.”

“Jim! Stop this! He’s not the one you want to hurt!”

“Oh I think I do,” he replied. Smoke curled up from Lestrade’s sweater from beneath the firmly planted hand. “By hurting him I hurt you.”

“Stop! Please,” Sherlock begged. “What do you want from me?”

Moriarty’s face twitched, in anger and amusement and insanity all at once, into a smile. “I want what I’ve always wanted. I want your heart, Sherlock.”

“I told you long ago, Jim. It’s not yours to reach for.”

“Well then I’ll give you a choice. You can either give it to me and save your friend that way. Or You can give it to him and save him but be forever unable to fully give your heart to another. Or,” at that moment flames shot out from his hand and enveloped Lestrade, his screams filling the room, “You can keep your heart and watch your friend die at my hands.”

Moriarty stepped back to watch Sherlock’s panic spread across his face. A second passed and Sherlock sprung into action. He ran to Lestrade’s side and grabbed him, flames and all. Lestrade’s clothes had already burned away to nothing and his flesh was charred, his voice hoarse from screaming. “Hold on Lestrade! Stay with me...God help me.”

“God can’t help you now,” Moriarty quipped.

With one hand wrapped around Lestrade’s burning torso, Sherlock brought the other to his heart and whispered to himself:

_“What is mine is yours_

_Given freely never to return_

_My heart pressed to yours_

_Will mend the torn and salve the burn”_

A glow formed under his palm and then they were both screaming; Lestrade’s fading to gasps and choking. Tears flowed down Sherlock’s face as he brought the glowing mass from his chest. John saw for the briefest of moments before it was pressed to Lestrade’s that it was Sherlock’s heart that was wrenched from his body. After Sherlock’s heart was pressed into Lestrade his jerking movements and desperate sounds stopped. Lestrade stilled and John watched as his perfect skin returned. He was still aflame but his body regained it’s perfect stature from a few moments before. After his body regained its previous stature he saw the flames swirl around him and shape themselves into a very fine suit. Finally, once he was back to normal he opened his eyes. “Sherlock,” he gasped.

“Shh, don’t. Don’t say anything.”

“But-”

“Hush, it’s not over yet.”

Lestrade looked confused until he looked down at his body and saw it still aflame. A scream caught in his throat and he grasped at Sherlock, whose body was badly burned and exposed, trying to flee from the fire. Sherlock cried out in pain and wrench the hands free of his body, “Calm yourself, Lestrade!”

Lestrade’s eyes snapped up to Sherlock’s and nodded. Then, slowly, he began to shrink. He shrank until he could almost fit in the palm of Sherlock’s hand. Only then did Sherlock relax and fall back to lay on the floor, utterly exhausted.

Moriarty clapped in mock appreciation. “Bravo. Very touching.”

Sherlock panted in pain and anger and shot Moriarty a look of daggers. “You’ll never get my heart, Moriarty.”

Moriarty crossed the room and crouched down in front of him and gave him the sweetest of smiles and softly whispered, “And now, no one else ever will.”

And in that moment, John understood everything.

He understood why Sherlock wanted people to think he was a monster, why he kept his feelings so close; he was very literally burned, in the worst way imaginable, by love. His love for Lestrade and Moriarty’s farce of love.

John crossed the room to sit on the other side of Sherlock. He knew that he couldn’t be heard, probably not even felt since this was a memory dream, but he wanted to comfort. He laid a palm over the slowly healing flesh on Sherlock’s chest, right where his heart used to be, and bent to touch his forehead to the man he had grown to love.

All too soon the dream changed a final time. The dream found John facing Sherlock in the midst of a white void dressed in his customary dressy clothes and perfectly groomed hair. He seemed to be staring directly at John; staring with pained affection. Slowly, like the gentle breeze at the beginning of a great storm, Sherlock’s words filled the void. His name was the most uttered word interspersed with the phrases _beautiful person, someone to me, amazing person, evil man, love, monster, pain, John, John, John..._

And then the dream was over. Sherlock was kissing him awake, dragging him from the dream; reluctant to leave it but reluctant to stay knowing the man was flesh and blood on the other side. Before he gave himself fully to the waking world he made a silent promise to himself. He would make Moriarty pay. Make him burn. For him, Lestrade and, most of all, for Sherlock. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew a little inspiration here with the Snape/Lily scene from the Harry Potter movies. I feel like it fit a bit. Hope you all are enjoying so far!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this has been a long time coming and unfortunately it's short but I haven't had a whole lot of time to sit and write. But hopefully this little bit will get you hungry for more and I can clear some more time to write.

John dragged himself from the dreaming world with a mixture of relief, sadness and the beginning twitches of arousal as Sherlock’s lips pressed into John’s, tongue flicking out to taste, ushering him into the present. John sighed into his mouth and opened beneath him and curled an arm around Sherlock’s neck to pull him closer. Their tongues tangled lazily while they fit their bodies together. John pulled his face away for breath and whispered, “Good morning.”

Sherlock started a trail of light kisses that began at the corner of John’s lips and curved down along his jawline to end below his ear. “Good morning, John. Sleep well?”

The dream still hovered in John’s mind, all the things he had unintentionally saw, and shivered slightly. “Very active dreams,” he responded. But then he smiled and ghosted his fingernails down Sherlock’s spine, raising goosebumps. “But all the same, I rather did enjoy your bed.”

Sherlock chuckled into John’s collarbone, “Is that so?” He nipped the skin teasingly causing John to jump and bite back a whine. “Didn’t you say you wanted a nice,” Sherlock paused to suck a bruise into John’s collarbone and felt John tense beneath his lips, “relaxing day after your ‘ordeal’ yesterday?”

John hummed in agreement, “Mmhmm, I believe I did.”

“Well Doctor,” Sherlock said as he trailed kisses up to John’s ear, “What would you suggest?” He ended the statement with a long suck of John’s earlobe.

John licked his lips and gripped Sherlock’s shoulders, his body fully awake and beginning to hum with arousal. “Normally,” he began, “For relaxation I’d suggest a nice shower or bath, followed by a nice meal and cuppa and end with a suggestion of a nice walk in the fresh air.” Sherlock traced his ear with tongue that made John’s toes curl and his body squirm. “But under the circumstan-”

Sherlock pulled away and eyed John with a cheeky grin, “A walk, excellent idea. We should definitely enjoy the fresh air.” He slipped from the covers, still gloriously naked, and beckoned John to join him.

John whined at the loss of Sherlock’s warmth, and his mouth’s attention, “Sherlock.”

“You said so yourself, perfect way to relax. Come, come,” Sherlock said as he slid a pair of pajama trousers over his hips. “We could have a nice little walk to the little lake you were so fond of the other day and enjoy a picnic.” He followed the trousers with a soft blue, cotton shirt. “Then perhaps a shower.” He shot a small grin to John that suggested much more than just a shower. Fully dressed he crawled across the bed to plant a chaste kiss to John’s lips. “Then perhaps we’ll be quite bored and we could find something else to do.”

“Right,” John said pushing Sherlock off him to crawl out of bed. “Walk it is then.”

He scooped up the trousers he had worn the night before, leaving the very stained shirt behind, and dressed hastily. He ducked into his own room for a fresh shirt and mused to himself, _the sooner we take a walk the closer we’ll be to a delicious shower and then back to bed._

The two men tromped down the stairs and John left Sherlock in the living room while he raided the kitchen for something for their proposed picnic. In no time he had slapped together a couple sandwiches, some fruit salad, and a couple bottles of water. Walking back into the living room he caught the conversation being had between Sherlock and Lestrade.

“Seriously, Sherlock,” Lestrade whined, “I’m so bored! Buy a bloody telly for me!”

“And rot your brain with mindless drabble? Why would you want that? And besides,” Sherlock said with a cheeky grin, leaning on the back of the couch, “How would you change the channels?”

“Or a radio or something, Jesus Sherlock, you’re such a prick.”

“Have I given you reason to believe otherwise?”

Lestrade just huffed and buried himself in his coals and Sherlock turned to face John. “Ready to go?”

John held up a tote with their lunch in it, “Yep.”

“Well then,” Sherlock ushered him towards the door and practically pushed him down the stairs, “Lead on oh Captain, my Captain.”

That made John stop halfway down the steps causing Sherlock to crash into his back. He whirled around to face the wizard. “Captain?”

“Just a phrase, John.”

“No, no, you see. I used to be a Captain.” His face twitched into something resembling a smile. He snapped to attention, saluting, “Captain John Watson, Fifth North Umberland Fusiliers.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock boredom, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth and he herded John out the door, “Yes, yes, very impressive, come on!”

“So hasty,” John tutted.

Outside it was a lovely warm day, uncharacteristically sunny with puffy clouds in the sky and a gentle breeze skimming across the meadow. The two men just stood soaking in the sun for a moment, basking in their shared silence. A moment later Sherlock cleared his throat and broke the quiet.

“If I recall,” he began, “That little lake should be just that way.” He pointed off in the direction he thought the lake to be and John followed as the wizard took the lead, completely confident that Sherlock knew where he was going.

John took the opportunity of their alone time to finally ask Sherlock some of the questions that had been heavy on his mind lately. “So, Sherlock. Tell me about how the palace came to be. It’s really quite extraordinary.”

“Well, the idea came from a tutor of mine. He taught me a fantastic way to store information that he called a ‘mind palace’. Said he had one and that it was immense and could continue to grow and grow,” Sherlock gesticulated with his hands to emphasize the proposed expansion, “if given the proper tending to.”

He paused in his speech and stuck one hand into his pajama trousers pocket and the other flitted about his head, “Then one day an idea came to me. What if I could manifest my mental library. My fortress of knowledge.” He faced John and a manic grin broke out on his face. “It was such an undertaking. Started small, of course, with the library.”

“The library was starting small?”

“Well,” Sherlock added sheepishly, “Comparatively.” John nodded and motioned for him to continue. “So, like I said. Started with the library. The window was the hardest, honestly. I had stored the information for all the literature for years but the window, that was a complex,” he sighed, “beautifully challenging piece of magic.”

“So is it real,” John asked sincerely. “Course it’s real. I mean, it started from a single piece of glass the size of a hand mirror. It’s amazing what some hard work and a few cleverly placed words can do. The colored panels were all done individually. Did you like them? Which was your favorite?”

John smiled at the eagerness in Sherlock’s voice and the way he, for a moment, sounded as if he had not a single care in the world. It was endearing and he felt as if he could listen to Sherlock explain magic for the rest of his life. “I rather liked the one with the waterfall and the deer.”

“Ah yes. I’d have to say my favorite would be one that I stupidly put near the top. Hard to see. It’s a scene of Persephone and Hades. Lovely shades of blue, purple and red. One of my favorite stories.”

“I could believe that.”

By the time they finished talking about the windows and the stained glass they had reached the lake. Sherlock breathed in deeply before dropping to the ground and sprawling on the grass beneath him. John followed suit setting aside their lunch and stretching out, tucking his hands behind his head.The sun felt good on his face. He got faint shadows from Afghanistan, the sudden phantom rush of intense heat and sand dragging across his face. But in an instant it was gone and the serenity of the world around them replaced the memory and John sighed in contentment.

He let the breeze on the lake be the only sound for a few minutes before picking their conversation back up. “So, what about the rest of the palace? Anderson said a lot of the material was scavenged from scrap but how does it all fit together?”

“Permanent bonding spell,” Sherlock said as if it explained everything.

“Ah, right.” John just closed his eyes and waited for further explanation.

Sherlock sighed as if John should have understood, despite having no prior knowledge of magic or how it works, and went on to say, “Once a room is completed it’s joined to the rest of the palace and sealed together in a bonding spell. Since it would require too much energy to constantly maintain a spell like that so it is also bonded to my mind and acts as an extension of my brain. Hence why things like the aesthetics of my room can change at a moment’s notice. It really is like a living dream.”

“Brilliant.” 

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Their heads tilted to eye one another. Sherlock’s smile was so bright it could light up a room and it warmed John’s heart to see. Sherlock leaned in, eyes lidded, and John could feel the tingle in his lips from the kiss he could feel was coming when they heard the shriek of birds flying about them, startling them out of their private bubble.

A whole flock of birds of several species flew over them in perfect military form. Somehow the two men on the earth below escaped their notice and they watched as the flock disappeared behind a puff of clouds. Sherlock once again turned his face to John’s and cupped the doctor’s cheek in his hand, sighing unhappily. “I believe that is my cue. My day off is over, I’m afraid.”

John’s heart sank. Not only did he want badly to snog the hell out of the gorgeous man next to him but he was also worried for him, his mind floating back to the image of a raven draped over Sherlock’s form. “Are you sure you have to go.”

Sherlock frowned sadly, “Unfortunately. There’s something big happening for such a big formation to be out this way and believe me,” he said before stealing a quick, chaste kiss from John, “There is so much I’d rather do today. But, duty calls. Rain check?”

John leaned into the hand still cupping his face and sighed, “Anytime.”

Sherlock caught John’s eyes and held them for a moment before shaking his head, sobering his own thoughts, and standing. He reached a hand down to help John up and a small smile replaced his frown. “The least I can do is escort you back to the palace. I need to change before I head out anyway.”

“Such a gentleman,” John teased. Their hands never parted all the way back to the palace.


	16. Chapter 16

“You sure I can’t convince you to take a quick shower?” John reached up on tiptoes to plant a slightly more than chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips before the wizard strolled out the door to certain danger.

Sherlock chuckled in response, “You know as well as I,” he said as he bent his head to meet John’s lips, “That any shower between us would be anything but quick.”

A groan from the direction of the fireplace stilled their snogging. “Oiy, do that on your own time! I don’t wanna see the excessive displays of affection.”

Sherlock touched his forehead to John’s sighing deeply but smiling, “You jealous, Lessy?”

Lestrade sniffed indignantly and crossed his arms. “Yeah right, been there, done that. No need for a repeat, thank you very much.”

John stiffened in remembrance of the scene he watched unfold in his dream. Through his closed eyes he could see the flames crackle around Lestrade’s face and he bit his lip to stifle a knowing sigh. _No need to go letting on that I know anything,_ he reminded himself.

“I really do need to be off,” Sherlock said, intruding his thoughts.

“Well, if you must you must.”

More heckling came from the fireplace, “Spoken like a true Mary Poppins. You gonna tidy up the nursery while Sherlock’s gone?”

John rounded on Lestrade. “Actually I thought I would go full on Hestia and clean the fireplace.”

Lestrade threw up his hands in defeat and turned his back. John smiled at that and faced Sherlock once more to peck him on the lips. “Go. Be careful.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock said with a smirk as he swept down the stairs. “You know me.” And with that he was out the door into the void and John was left alone.

 _Do I truly know him?_ Certainly felt like it.

John ran his fingers through his hair, trying to remove the tension that was mounting. He was worried. He wasn’t sure what a whole flock of birds flitting about the countryside meant but it couldn’t have been good and he certainly didn’t want Sherlock going out there without any backup. But what could he do? He sank into the couch and held his head in his hands and tried not to think of all the things that could be going wrong right this second.

“It does you know good. You know that don’tcha, Scarface?”

“Come again?”

Lestrade sat on the edge of the hearth and stared John down with an intense but sympathetic look. “Worrying does you no good.”

“Why would I be worried?” John licked his lips and covered them with his hands. He knew he wasn’t doing much to hide his anxiety.

“Because you’re so hooked on a certain wizard it’s pathetic. And I happen to know that he’s as close to being hooked as he’s gonna get, under the circumstances. And that he’s certainly in over his head”

“And you’re not worried?”

“Course I am,” Lestrade shot back. “How could I not be? He goes, I go. But there’s nothing I can do from here.”

 _To hell with it,_ John decided, _might do some good to tell him._ “I know.”

Lestrade's stare was disconcerted. “You know what?”

“I know how you were cursed.”

Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face with one hand and hugged his body with the other. “How?” His voice quavered, sounding so tired, so relieved at knowing that he wasn’t alone in his knowledge.

“I dreamed it. Last night in Sherlock’s room just after...” John let the sentence trail off unfinished. He stared into the coals that burned behind Lestrade, eyes matching them for intensity. “Moriarty has a lot to answer for.”

“He certainly does.”

They say silent for a few moments until Lestrade cleared his throat. “You should take a shower, mate. Can smell you all the way over here.”

That made John laugh aloud. “You can smell things in there?”

“Damn right I can,” the fire sprite pointed to the stairs and added, “Now get to it. Tired of smellin’ ya.”

John just shook his head and followed orders. On the way to the stairs he looked over his shoulder and said, “Better be nice to me. I might be able to con a telly out of Sherlock for you.”

“Promises, promises,” Lestrade retorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

John took the fire creature’s advice and showered, enjoying the wet heat but couldn’t help feeling the loss of certain gorgeous man while he soaped up. After his shower he dressed in comfortable khaki’s, t-shirt and jumper and slunk back the kitchen to attack the abandoned sandwiches from their canceled picnic. He then spent the rest of the afternoon reading a book he found in the library and idly chatting with Lestrade before passing out on the couch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was late when Sherlock returned to the castle. He was bloody and exhausted, his mission cut short by the unfortunate appearance of a pack of the Queen’s Errand Dogs. _Damn dogs, course it was a trap._ They were getting stronger, bigger, bolder and Sherlock felt the fight for balance slipping from him. He dragged his aching body through the door although it was tough going as one of his arms was still a large, drooping raven’s wing. He wanted to wait until he made it to his room to take full inventory of his injuries and to see just how much of him was still raven.

He dragged his oversized wing behind him as he trudged towards the stairs. His wing felt heavier than it should but that was probably due to most of his body being human. His wing was easily as long as his human body was tall. He made it up the stairs and to the couch before having to pause for breath, gripping the leather in fingers that ended with talons. _How am I going to get upstairs,_ he pondered. He looked over his shoulders and saw a streak of blood behind him that made him cringe; Not only because he knew he was hurt but also because he knew John had worked so hard to keep the floor clean. He vowed that if had recouped enough before John woke that he would come back to clean up his mess.

A horrified gasp shook him from his reverie and he met Lestrade and John’s horrified gazes.

 _Well bloody hell,_ Sherlock thought. _What to do now?_

“John I-”

“Jesus Christ Sherlock, what the fuck happened to you?”

“I’ll clean the floor, I promise.”

 

"What?"

Sherlock focused on John’s confused face. He knew Lestrade was saying something but his brain refused to cooperate and register it. He stayed focused entirely on John. It was almost comical. _Hmm….seems the blood loss is causing a mild euphoria._ He logged the picture John made for further review at a time when he wasn’t in massive pain.

“I said I’d-”

“I heard you, you git. You think I’m angry about the floor? Jesus…”

John rounded the couch and scooped up his arm that was still mostly wing and draped it across his shoulder and gripped him securely by the waist. John held him close and tightly and together, step by step, they made it to the stairs. At the foot of the stairs John paused.

“Now comes the hard part, are you ready?”

Sherlock puffed out his chest like the proud bird he was (which caused a fair amount of pain but he took it in stride as always) and huffed in mock amusal. “Ready whenever you are, Captain.” He giggled as the word Captain slipped from his mouth, remembering how ridiculously charming John had looked saluting him. But giggling hurt and it turned into a groan.

“Alright then,” John said as he gripped tighter, “Up we go.”

It took them almost ten minutes to get up the stairs between their slow shuffling and the frequent stops to keep Sherlock’s lungs from screaming in protest. His wing hurt him more than ever and it dragged, even with it being supported by John’s shoulder. It was grueling.Finally they go to the top of the stairs and Sherlock sagged against the wall breathing hard.

“Alright,” John said as he continued to support the wizard. “Hard part’s over. All that’s left is a leisurely walk to your room.”

“Leisurely,” Sherlock sniffed in response. “Says you.”

They made it to Sherlock’s room and the moment they entered the room blurred around them, shifting to suit Sherlock’s current needs. And what he needed currently was to curl up and sleep. Recoup.

Hence the reason why a concave bed filled with blankets and pillows appeared, resembling a giant nest.

 _Really,_ Sherlock mused, _I really am too cliche._

John loosened his grip as Sherlock made to pull away and curl into the the nest. His knee had just hit the corner of it when John surprised him.

“You should let me clean you up.” Sherlock turned his head to eye him. “You know,” he added biting his lip, “Just to get the blood off you. See if there’s anything I can do with the human part of you.”

John’s words weren’t computing. _He wasn’t frightened? Disgusted?_

“You,” Sherlock began slowly, “Would want to touch me like this? You’re not frightened?”

John gave him a look that said “you’re an idiot” and shook his head. “Can you stay put for a few minutes while I run to my room to get my kit? I don’t have much but I have a basic kit with me at all times. Never know when it’ll be of use.” Sherlock stared, mouth agape, just nodding. John left and returned a moment later carrying a small medical kit. “Can you conjure a sink in this room? Or is it kind of a predetermined layout?”

Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes, _of course he’s ask about the mechanics of it, endearing._ A moment later a sink sprang up a couple feet from his nest and John nodded his thanks and went to wash his hands. After sliding on a pair of sterile gloves he took a cloth from the kit, wet it and walked over to Sherlock who had moved to sitting on the edge of the nest, patiently waiting.

Sherlock winced as John touched his forehead with the cloth, wiping away blood, dirt and sweat. The cloth worked it’s way across his forehead, over both cheeks, pausing briefly over his split lip, then continued down to his neck. John cleared his throat, eyes fastidiously focused on where his hand was traveling. “So, you mind telling me what happened?”

Sherlock was disinclined to answer until he heard John utter a soft, “Please?”

He sighed in defeat and spoke. “It was a trap.” When John stayed silent as he continued his ministrations, the doctor’s hands now combing through his hair and trailing along his neck searching for more wounds, Sherlock continued. “The flock we saw today was planned. They wanted me to see it. They’re getting closer to finding where we are.” He added an angry “stupid” under his breath and pressed on. “I was able to gather some intel in my underground network, The Irregulars.”

He caught the doctor’s eyes and grinned. “They’re part of the opposition. Army of my own design. The poor, beat down wizards with little magic left in them. No one thinks are worth anything. Ingenious, right?”

John gave him a humoring smile, “Yes yes, very impressive” he said in a teasing tone, throwing Sherlock’s words from the morning back at him. “Go on.” John added as he began unbuttoning Sherlock's torn dress shirt to get a look at his chest.

“Well, I found out where the flock was headed and decided to hide out near their meeting point to see what they were up to.”

“And you’re so inconspicuous as a giant raven?”

“You’ve been talking to Lestrade, haven’t you? Nevermind, anyway. I was watching the flock as they landed and were awaiting further instructions when I was attacked by a pack of Her Majesty’s lapdogs.” He hissed in pain as John crouched and pressed against his ribs searching for breaks. “Rather, Her Majesty’s giant, drooling and very impolite dogs. They were waiting for me. They tried to injure me enough to capture me and bring me back to her. I escaped.” He sighed angrily, angry with himself at having fallen for something so stupid. "Barely."

John sat back on his heels to stare at him. “You were mauled?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” John said as he searched for the words appropriate for the situation. Licking his lips he said, “Looking good for having being chewed on by a pack of savage dogs.”

Sherlock laughed then groaned in pain, “Oh spare me,” Sherlock whined. “It hurts to laugh.”

“That’s because you probably have some bruised ribs. Your chest is all black and blue and I’m surprised I don’t see any teeth marks or lacerations. Almost no blood. Care to explain?”

“Don’t be dense, John. It’s so tiresome.”

John rolled his eyes and went back to his kit and turned back after a bit of digging, carrying back a small tube of antiseptic and some bandages. “You can heal yourself, can’t you.”

“To a point.”

“But you’ve used a considerable amount of magic already. Hence the smaller cuts and the bruises and the half transformation.”

Sherlock smiled up at him. “Got it in one.”

“Idiot.” He bent to dab some antiseptic on his forehead.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Why on earth,” John snapped as he rather forcefully applied a bandage to Sherlock’s head, “Would you think it was a good idea to take on a flock of highly trained,” Sherlock scoffed at the ‘highly trained’ bit, “flock of soldiers alone? Christ you could’ve been killed.”

“Has to be me.” Sherlock caught John’s eyes trying to convey his incredible sense of duty to the people he was trying to protect. “Someone has to fight for them. The magical folk. No one else is.”

John’s eyes never wavered from his and Sherlock would give anything to know what was going through John’s mind. But he just shook his head and took off the gloves, tossing them back into the kit. “Would you like something for the pain?”

“John?”

John faced him again, his face serious, like the soldier he had been a lifetime ago. “Would you like something for the pain?”

Sherlock thought a moment and realized all he really wanted was sleep. And John. He didn’t want John to leave. “No thank you.”

John nodded and grabbed his kit starting for the door. Before Sherlock could stop himself he blurted out, “Stay with me?”

John stopped dead in his tracks and slowly turned to face him. “You want me to stay?”

Sherlock felt small asking but he didn’t care, “Please?”

John’s answering smile was small and warm. “Of course. Give me a minute and I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock nodded, confident John would return, and the doctor strode purposefully out of the room. While John was gone Sherlock tried to settle himself in a way that would be comfortable. He ended up curled against the curve of the nest with his wing curling with the shape of he padding, knees curled into himself and his one human arm draped over them. He realized too late that, while he was comfortable, he was still dressed and in his shoes. _Well, nothing for it now,_ he lamented silently.

Footsteps pulled at him and John reappeared dressed in comfy looking pajamas, carrying a glass of water. Suddenly Sherlock was deadly thirsty. _God, he’s so perceptive._

John held out the glass and Sherlock downed it gratefully in three large gulps. He passed the empty glass back to John who placed it on the floor and stood above him looking down.

“How...exactly,” he began. But then he apparently had answered his own question and climbed into the padded nest and curled around Sherlock, an arm draped across his human side, the other snaking under his body to pull him into a tight hug. “Figure this will be less irritating when your body decides to shift back."

“Clever,” Sherlock replied half yawning.

Their positioning was almost foreign to him. _Me as the little spoon, absurd._ But he was too comfortable to care and he just yawned the thought away, closed his eyes and burrowed into the cushioning.

John rooted around near their feet searching for the edge of the blanket when he noticed Sherlock’s shoes. “Would you like those off,” he asked. Sherlock nodded his assent and in a moment he was divested of the cumbersome shoes and they were both covered with a blanket, the edge carefully tucked out of the way of the bottom of Sherlock’s scapular and secondary covert feathers. Tucked against Sherlock’s back John breathed out against the back of Sherlock’s neck, sending tingles everywhere and awakening feelings he long ago thought he had given up forever. He thought feelings of fondness, the beginnings of love - for he knew exactly what this was -, would never return. Maybe he was closer to breaking the curse than ever before. _John Watson, you continually surprise me._

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” John ended his goodnight with a small kiss pressed to the back of his neck and Sherlock drifted to sleep with the smallest of smiles etched into his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hestia, mentioned near the beginning of the chapter, is the Greek goddess of the hearth. 
> 
> Scapular and secondary covert feathers are the feather closest to the junction of the wing to the body on winged and feathered animals.


	17. Chapter 17

John awoke to the tingling feeling in his nose that one only experiences after spending a night with their face buried in someone else’s hair. Nuzzling the back of Sherlock’s head with his nose he breathed in deeply, loving the smell of him. _Sweat, dirt, but a hint of soap and expensive cologne. Eau de Sherlock._ He chuckled softly at the thought of bottling essence of Sherlock and pressed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s hair, receiving a sleepy sigh in response.

Sherlock was still asleep but had effectively trapped him despite John being the big spoon. The wizard’s hands clutched at John’s forearms, hugging them to his body, with head ducked down and John could feel his gentle breath float over their tangled limbs. John let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he saw that Sherlock had returned to fully human before letting his eyes wander over his sleeping companion.

He had never seen him so relaxed, so unguarded. Sherlock always rose before him. Seeing him this way made John’s heart hitch in his chest. He tried not to think about the fact that he hadn’t woke first had more to due with the fact that his body was healing and he had run it into the ground than his being comfortable with John holding him while he slept. _One could always hope._

John brushed errant curls away from Sherlock’s face and watched as his lips parted at John’s touch. He was in love with those lips. Those lips and the absurd things that spouted from them. He loved watching them when Sherlock ate, scowled or sucked his cock.

At the image of Sherlock’s mouth doing incredibly filthy things to him John’s anatomy made itself apparent, steadily hardening. John hugged Sherlock close and kissed the back of Sherlock’s neck, just above the trapezius, and let his tongue drag lightly across the skin to taste him. Sherlock sighed softly and began to stir, body sliding against his, the friction eliciting a gasp from John. John kept up his attention on Sherlock’s neck he heard the exact moment that Sherlock became more awake than not, his sharp intake of breath doing unspeakable things to John’s already active libido.

Sherlock practically purred in response to John’s licks and kisses, voice breathy when he finally spoke. “Mmm...good morning.”

John briefly abandoned his ministrations to Sherlock’s neck to suck an earlobe into his mouth before whispering into Sherlock’s ear, “Morning. Sleep well?”

“I was yes. And then a very awake,” he paused to grind his arse into John’s pelvis, relishing the wrecked gasp John made, “Very aroused doctor decided to wake me.”

“My apologies,” John said with mock sincerity. “Would you like me to leave you be?”

“Don’t you dare.”

Sherlock twisted his body till he had turned to his other side and captured John’s face in his large hands. He kissed him hard, sucking the doctor’s bottom lip into his mouth. John gripped the wizard’s hips roughly and pulled him as close and possible, sliding his thigh between Sherlock’s legs to get the friction their bodies desperately sought.They groaned in unison when John moved. Sherlock’s mouth fell open against John’s and let loose a sound sound the bordered the line between whimper and growl; Deep, rich, slightly keening, and utterly arousing.

“We need less clothes,” John uttered before purposefully rutting against Sherlock. All Sherlock could do was nod his assent and breathe a barely audible “yes” before he was being divested of the remains of his clothes from the evening prior.

The destroyed silk shirt was the work of a second, still unbuttoned from John’s examinations. John barely got Sherlock’s trousers undone before sliding his palm against the wizard’s length. He loved hearing Sherlock groan beneath him. Each sound sent tremors of delight straight to his cock and he never wanted Sherlock to stop. John curled his fingers around Sherlock’s cock, stroking him once before using both hands to slide the trousers and pants over Sherlock’s ankles.

Sherlock’s body was exquisite. No trace of the bruising from the night before, no scrapes. Just miles of creamy skin that John absolutely needed to get his mouth on. He ran his hands along Sherlock’s sides, feeling every ridge of his too thin torso, before dipping his head to take one pert nipple in his mouth.

The man nearly arched clear off the bed and if it weren’t for John holding his hips firmly to the mattress he would have. The groan that accompanied John’s mouthing just spurred the doctor on as he moved to the other nipple, laving it tenderly before catching it between his teeth and sucking. When he finally replaced his hand on Sherlock’s now leaking cock the wizard all but whined with unspoken but evident desire.

“Y-you, you still,” Sherlock panted.

John moved his mouthing lower, kissing and licking the skin down Sherlock’s stomach. “I what, love?”

Sherlock licked his lips and bit back a groan, “I - You’re still dressed.”

“Silly me. Should I remedy that?”

Sherlock nodded emphatically, eyes closed. John chuckled at the sight of a man already wrecked and he had barely started. With all haste he made short work of his shirt and pajama bottoms before covering Sherlock’s body with his, kissing the man thoroughly, catching every pleased sound.

For several minutes they just snogged and ground against each other. Hands grabbed and dug in where they may, mouths moved from lips to necks, from ears to collarbones. John never wanted it to end, this easy exploration. But his cock was starting to ache from neglect and he needed something, anything. He needed Sherlock.

“Tell me what you want,” he heaved against Sherlock’s mouth, gasping for air.

“I need you John,” Sherlock’s words tumbling from his mouth. “I need you in me.”

John bit his lip as he pictured every way he wanted this man. But one way stuck out more than the others. “On your side for me.” Sherlock complied, settling himself the way they had woken up with his back pressed against John’s chest. John propped himself up on one arm and let the other trailed down Sherlock’s side down to his arse, cupping one cheek with gusto. Then he realized the flaw in their plan.

“Sherlock, do you have…”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and closed his eyes. A second later a bottle of lube materialized in front of John’s face to fall to the bed. It was so absurd he almost laughed aloud until Sherlock ground against him and reminded him of the very serious situation that lay against him.

He plucked the bottle from the sheets and fumbled a moment to get his fingers coated. He positioned Sherlock so he was laying on his front and pushed his legs apart. Satisfied with the positioning he slid his slick fingers between Sherlock’s cheeks to rub circles against his entrance. When he felt Sherlock relax he pressed a finger in, the going easier than it had been the first time. He still stiffened at the intrusion but soon the wizard was whining and pressing back into his hand. In no time at all, John was buried three fingers deep in this gorgeous man teasing him with perfectly timed thrusts against his prostate.

“MmFuck, John…please.”

“Come here.”

John repositioned Sherlock so he was spooning him again. A second later he had Sherlock’s leg thrown over and hooked behind his hip and he had slicked up his cock, poised against Sherlock’s hole. When he pushed his head inside Sherlock gasped and struggled for something for him to hold onto, settling for one twisted in the sheets and the other flung back to grip the hair at the base of John’s neck. John buried himself deeper, inch by inch until he was fully seated.

The feel of him being completely encased, so tight and wet, was the sweetest torture. Sherlock felt so good and all John wanted to do was thrust with wild abandon. But John had some control and he just pulled back and re entered with a steady rhythm. As much as their position allowed Sherlock matched him thrust for thrust and soon John was slamming into Sherlock, cries falling from the wizard’s lips and the sound of flesh smacking flesh filling the room.

“God you feel amazing,” John groaned, forehead pressed to Sherlock’s shoulder. “So tight, Christ, Sherlock…”

“Fuck, John, please,” Sherlock begged, “I need, I’m so close!”

John picked up his speed and wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s leaking cock. A keening sound burst from Sherlock and a few thrusts later he was shouting. “God yes, fuck John! I’m-I’m coming!”

“Yes, fuck, come for me,” John pumped him through his orgasm, “God you’re gorgeous like this.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, pushing back into him with more fervor.

“Fuck, just like that, god yes!” John slammed into Sherlock once more before his orgasm ripped through him, making him convulse and shake around Sherlock.

They lay there for a few moments catching their breath. John slid out of Sherlock gingerly, not wanting to move anymore than he had to, too in love with the way every part of him felt at the moment. He felt Sherlock shift beside him and he almost sighed with loss. But Sherlock merely wanted to turn to face him and buried his face in John’s neck, tangling their legs and gripping him tightly, pressing kisses into his neck and shoulder.

He felt himself starting to doze when Sherlock’s lips jolted him wide awake. They had found their way to his shoulder scar and were gently, respectfully, mouthing the tissue there. John stiffened on reflex, unsure if Sherlock knew where he had wandered but unwilling to stop him. Sensing his unease Sherlock broke the silence.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Not much. A lot of the nerves are dead or numb. Most of the time it has a feeling like when your foot falls asleep.”

“Tell me how it happened.”

It wasn’t a question and John’s stomach clenched. He didn’t know if he could tell him. Didn’t know what would come out and what wouldn’t. His mouth decided to go ahead before his brain had made up its mind.

“I was in Afghanistan,” he began. He licked his lips, recalling the day it happened, his hand clenching and unclenching out of habit, on impulse. “I was working in a clinic, running the clinic. There was this Yank kid, couldn’t have been more than twenty.” He paused, his heart beating rapidly. “I was pulling shrapnel from an IED out of his back and out of nowhere there were explosions, people running and screaming.”

The vision he painted was so vivid he could hear it in his ears. All those many miles and years away and he could still hear them, feel the adrenaline, feel the dirt and the sun. He closed his eyes but they kept coming.

“John?”

When John forced his eyes open he saw Sherlock staring down at him, concern flooding his eyes. Sherlock ran a hand across his forehead, pushing the errant strands off his forehead, eyes searching his. He forced himself to take deeper breaths and when they were coming evenly he pressed on.

“There was an explosion and I was blinded. Woke up with the world dark and in helluva lot of pain. Somewhere during the attack I had been shot and left for dead along with a few others. The cavalry came and airlifted the survivors to another clinic. Lots of surgery and therapy later I was discharged with the face you see before you.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. It was the face he had when he left the army. But it’s not the one Sherlock met.

“You didn’t have these when we first met.”

John’s breath caught in his throat. “You remember?”

Sherlock smiled warmly and leaned down to kiss his lips lightly. “Took me a while, but I thought I recognized you the first day you walked into the palace harassing Lestrade.”

“Hey now,” John piped up to defend himself, “He started with the harassing!”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re both instigators.” He kissed John deeply and ran his hands along the lines torn into his skin. “But no, matter. I rather like you both in spite of it.” Sherlock settled against John’s chest again, ear over his heart and breathed.

“How long before you knew it was me,” John asked shyly.

“I suspected it the first day you came to stay.” He paused to plant a kiss in the center of John’s chest. “I was positive after that first night in your bed.”

John smiled at the memory and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him tight. “What settled it for you?”

Sherlock hesitated but it was over in an instant and he simply said, “I just knew. Doubly so when you mentioned Moriarty. I had suspected you were cursed but hearing his name confirmed it.”

 _Maybe one day we'll get to talk about everything plainly_ , John thought sadly. But he refused to let anything, especially Moriarty ruin the afterglow he was basking in and he banished Moriarty and all his deeds, known and unknown, to the furthest reaches of his mind and returned his thoughts to where they should be, strictly on him and Sherlock.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Thank you for sharing.” He paused, licking his lips. “I know it was...difficult.”

John put a finger under Sherlock’s chin to tilt his head up. Staring into his lover’s eyes he simply stated, “You asked and so I told you. I find myself quite incapable of saying no to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes glazed over for half a second, so fully of emotion it hurt. But it was replaced with a look of controlled happiness and Sherlock replied, “I seem to find myself in a similar predicament.”

John laughed aloud at his particular use of words, mirroring those he said on that first fateful night, and he couldn’t help himself. He closed the small distance between them and kissed him slow and deeply all the while thinking _I am in so deep._


	18. Chapter 18

_~Sherlock Speaks~_

About an hour into their lie in Sherlock became restless, squirming in John’s arms, unused to the inactivity so late in the day. John finally suggested a shower and tea and Sherlock almost leapt from the bed at the prospect of moving. He had nearly strode out the door before thinking that leaving _\- your lover, flatmate, boyfriend, man who cleans your house and now you’re shagging him? -_ John alone so quickly after such a lovely, intimate morning was “a bit not good” and he turned back to the bed to drag John with him to the bathroom.

They showered together, scrubbing each other’s backs and giggling like school children. As they toweled off and brushed their teeth John asked Sherlock about the nature of his bedroom.

“So, you never answered me last night.” Sherlock hummed his questioning response around his toothbrush. “Does your room have multiple, predetermined layouts or can you change it?”

Sherlock spit into the sink and rinsed his mouth of toothpaste froth before answering. “I have certain layouts that I have used a lot and they pop up when I come in based on what I need.” He grabbed a comb out of one of the bins on the counter and combed his hair. “For instance, the first night we slept together,” he smiled warmly at the memory, “I chose a more...orthodox bedroom. Last night I was still healing and wanted to cocoon. To nest. The room anticipates my needs so it conjured a bed that looked like a nest.”

“And being able to conjure say, a sink?” John giggled before continuing, “Or a bottle of lube?”

“The sink is a simple thing to add when you can sort of ‘copy and paste’ a design from somewhere else familiar. The bottle of lube came from the drawer in the layout you saw the other day.”

John’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Brilliant.”

Sherlock blushed and turned his attention to applying cream and shaving his face, eyes moving between the razor in his hand and John’s face in the mirror. John toweled his head off to dry his hair before reaching around Sherlock to grab his toothbrush from the sink. _When did he start keeping his things in the bathroom?_ Sherlock paid it no further attention, deciding he rather liked having John’s things mingle with his.

John prepped his toothbrush and brushed his teeth alongside Sherlock while he shaved and Sherlock’s insides fluttered with nervous energy. He had never been this way with anyone. So domestic. So comfortable. It was both amazing and alarming. He wasn’t sure what it meant that he was _\- allowed to?-_ feeling anything other than tolerance and curiosity for another person.

_Who is John Watson? What is he to me? Am I close to breaking the curse? Why?_

Questions chased each other in his head until Sherlock was drawn back to the present when John spoke.

“What have you got going on today?”

Sherlock ran the warm tap and wiped his face with a flannel. “I think it’s moving day.”

“What?”

“Remember I said last night that Moriarty was getting close to finding this place?” John nodded and Sherlock continued. “Well then, it’s time to move.” Sherlock gave him a quick peck on the cheek and relinquished the sink to John to finish his morning routine. Clad only in a towel he made his way to his room shouting to the rest of the house, “Moving day! Everyone up and at ‘em!”

A few minutes later he was dressed and bouncing around the living room with impatience at everyone. Anderson wasn’t ready. John wasn’t ready. Lestrade was being difficult, not wanting to move anything until everyone was together. Where the hell was his tea?

Ten minutes later John had joined him and Lestrade in the living room. “Anderson is in the bathroom. He’ll be down in a few. Would you like a cuppa?”

Sherlock sniffed and flopped onto the couch, “Thought you’d never ask.” John just shook his head at his little fit and went to the kitchen to start the kettle.

“Very nice of you to not offer me anything, Scarface.”

John poked his head back into the living room. “My apologies, sprite. Would you like some bacon?”

“How very kind, yes I would.”

Sherlock huffed from the couch, pushing himself off the leather to join John in the kitchen. “You’re feeding him now? Like a pet?”

John peeled a slice of bacon from the pack and went to the hearth to pass it to Lestrade. Lestrade’s hands made the bacon sizzle on first contact and he spat at Sherlock, “Someone around here appreciates me, don’tcha John?”

Sherlock pouted. “I appreciate you.”

Lestrade scoffed and took a bite of bacon. “Could show it more often, mate.” He sat on a log and kept on chewing, entirely focused on his breakfast.

The kettle whistled and John went back to the kitchen to pull it off the stove. He pulled out three mugs and a box of tea from the cabinets and set himself to filling the mugs. Sherlock watched from the dining table with fascination at John’s ease in the kitchen. His kitchen. The way he quickly found the loaf of bread from the counter next two the fridge then smoothly danced across the kitchen to drop a couple slices in the toaster, untying the packaging as he crossed. John’s face was softened with contentment and Sherlock was surprised to see that his face was mostly clear of the scars on his face. Had it been like that this morning? Sherlock couldn’t recall. He squinted his eyes, intent on observing just how faded the lines on John’s face were. All but the deepest, most sore looking lines had faded. All at once the pieces clicked for Sherlock.

John was happy.

Ridiculously happy.

It suddenly made so much sense. The fact that they only disappeared when John wasn’t consciously thinking about his face or about his past life in the military or the clinic. _What was he thinking about?_

John must have sensed his watching because one second his face was almost smooth and the next it was etched with the now-familiar scarring. _Interesting._

“Take a picture it’ll last longer,” John joked, spreading butter on a slice of toast.

Sherlock smiled and crossed from the table to the counter and snatched the toast from John’s plate.

“Oi, wanker!”

John chased him from the kitchen and trapped him against the couch. He had stuck the toast between his teeth before John snatched his hands and held them against the back of the couch. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him but otherwise exhibited a face of innocence.

“That was my toast.”

He let Sherlock’s hands go for a moment and tore the bread in half, taking the piece that wasn’t secured in Sherlock’s mouth and took a bite on his way back to the kitchen. Sherlock just followed, swallowing the remainders of the slice in three bites, and retrieved his mug of tea from John just as Anderson came clomping down the stairs.

“Anderson, gentle on those stairs!” Sherlock hated the sound of useless clomping. Just unnecessary noise.

Anderson just rolled his eyes and finished his descent with softer steps. John set a plate with two pieces of toast on the table and a cuppa on the table for him and Anderson tucked in. “So we’re moving today,” Anderson around his bites of toast.

“Yes we are. So once you’re done I need you to run upstairs and make sure all the windows are bolted. John,” Sherlock turned to face him and continued, “I’m going to have you help me secure the library. Then we secure the kitchen and then the hard part begins.” He turned towards the hearth and addressed Lestrade, “And you, Lessy, I want you to get the castle moving north. Quick as we can manage.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Lestrade saluted back.

“That’s John’s title. Your Majesty will do just fine for me, thanks,” Sherlock retorted smugly before taking a sip of his tea.

“Your Majesty,” Lestrade parroted mockingly, curtsying for added effect.

John laughed and tossed his dishes in the sink. “You done there Your Highness?” John grinned and reached his hand out for Sherlock’s empty mug. Once Sherlock’s mug had joined the other dishes in the sink John barked for Anderson to hurry it up with his breakfast and get a move on and began washing their dishes.

While the other two were preoccupied with their activities Sherlock went over to the hearth and heaped on a large load of logs for Lestrade to fuel on as today would take a lot out of him and he wanted Lestrade to be well equipped. In no time at all Anderson was up the stairs to his task and John was wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Ready to get going?”

Sherlock took his hand and led him upstairs to the library. “Absolutely, finally!”

It took them the better part of the early afternoon to stow everything that was breakable somewhere safe and secure all drawers and things that potentially would slide around. Despite the fact that they were actively moving, as evidenced by the countryside passing them by whenever one took the moment to look out the window, it was very smooth and hardly felt like it at all. Almost as if they were a cruise ship sailing over the waves; stable.

“Why all this tying down if we’re moving so smoothly?”

Sherlock felt he would never tire of John’s questions. Most of the time people’s questions just annoyed him and they went unanswered. But something about John made him want to answer.

“Because once Lestrade finds a place to settle the real move begins. And that could upset some of the more delicate workings of the palace.”

“The real move?”

Sherlock made his way to his room with John trailing behind. When they entered the room was no longer the nest that they had shared in the morning. Instead it was a vast workshop with tables and shelves covered with magical paraphernalia. Sherlock knew exactly what he was looking for and went to a very particular box that was swimming in clutter on a table to the left of the door. Sherlock scowled at the in-organization while he dug for a particular piece of blue chalk. He muttered under his breath, “Don’t even know why I have an assistant.”

“What was that,” John asked leaning in the doorway.

“Oh nothing. Anderson’s been neglecting his duties. Again. This place should be spotless.”

Anderson piped up from the hallway as he passed by, “That’s cause you throw things at my head whenever I try.”

Sherlock hurled a book through the door, narrowly missing John’s head, and succeeded in running Anderson off. John just chuckled, “You know, throwing things at children is usually frowned upon.”

“Only when it’s not deserved. And I only throw things at him when things are not put away where they belong.” He straightened his cuffs and placed a countenance of composure on his face as he walked back out into the hallway. “To answer your question the real moves involves moving the portals as well as the physical castle. There’s no telling how much Moriarty actually knows so we need to keep him on his toes and move everything.”

“Brilliant,” John exhaled, his smile full of praise.

“You know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry,” John bit his lip in embarrassment. “I’ll stop.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock smiled warmly. “It’s fine.”

They reentered the living room and Sherlock had John move all the furniture against the far wall to leave a large open space for Sherlock to work. He traced a large circle outline and John and Anderson watched raptly as he filled it with smaller circles and symbols. While he worked Mrs. Hudson found her way to their little congregation and walked over to where John was leaning against the piled furniture, jumping into a niche on the table. When he was finished he straightened and dusted the chalk dust off his hands as he walked over to Lestrade. “Are you ready for the hard part?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Be gentle with me this time!”

“I’m always gentle.”

Sherlock reached into the flames, the fire not even touching him, and held out his hand for Lestrade to climb upon. Once man and fire were in the very center of the circle they whispered a moment, conferring on where exactly they were moving to. Lestrade gasped at something Sherlock said and looked like he was about to argue but Sherlock gave him a look and the words seemed to die on Lestrade’s lips. Sherlock took a deep breath.They were ready.

Sherlock pressed Lestrade to his chest, where his heart would lay, and together they spoke;

_Shift and change_

_Like the wind_ _and sand_

_Move and bend_

The palace rumbled and vibrated. Sherlock could feel the magic hum through him, coursing it’s way through him like a conduit. He felt warm and light headed as the spell ran it’s course, focusing on where the portals were to open to. He knew John would be slack jawed at the spectacle, knew the picture he and Lestrade presented; the center of a cyclone of blue fire that engulfed but didn’t damage. Would almost have been pretty if it weren’t for the after effects of feeling nauseous and used up.

It was all over in a minute and the rumbling stopped, the fire faded away and Sherlock slumped to the ground clutching Lestrade, whose light was starting to dim. John was at his side in a second. “Sherlock, are you alright? Why is Lestrade so dim?”

“Big piece of magic, Scarface,” Lestrade groaned rubbing his head. “Would be easier if I were in a habit of moving around so much. Help him up.”

Sherlock was breathing hard, sweat pouring down his forehead, but he was able to stand on his own once John helped him up. _First thing’s first,_ he thought as he made his way back to the hearth to replace Lestrade. He tucked a couple extra logs in for good measure and when Lestrade’s fire began to burn a bit brighter he felt himself breathe easier. Eyes still watching Lestrade’s tired frame he quietly whispered, “Water.”

“Right here, boss,” Anderson said from behind him. He had seen this once before and for once, thankfully, had anticipated Sherlock’s needs. _Maybe he’s not useless after all._ He carefully accepted the water and sipped slowly, the shakiness in his body beginning to recede. He knew John was worried so he tore his eyes from Lestrade briefly to reassure John.

“I’m quite fine. Just a bit shaky. The water helps.” To show his sincerity he took another sip and gave John a tired smile. “Want to see where the portals go?”

“That can wait,” John said, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to guide him to the couch. “You need to sit. You look near to collapsing.”

He did feel better sitting but he said nothing. _No need for John to worry overmuch_. But it was disconcerting that the move had taken more out of him this time than it did previous times. He felt sicker than usual; the unshakable feeling not unlike seasickness, weak and churning. He almost dropped his empty water glass but John caught it on the way down.

“Fine my arse,” he heard John mutter. He felt the dip in the couch when John joined him on the couch. He felt John tug at his shoulders, pulling him into a horizontal position, his head in John’s lap. “Close your eyes and lay down. Breathe in through your nose and out your mouth. Slowly.” John rubbed his temples and Sherlock focused on his breathing. “Aside from that toast when was the last time you ate something?”

“Uhm…” Sherlock couldn’t remember.

“Oh my god, Anderson!” John sent the young assistant off in search of bananas and another glass of water. He returned with them and John peeled the banana and broke off a small chunk, holding it above Sherlock’s lips. “You idiot, you’ve been running yourself into the bloody ground and wonder why you can’t stand. Open.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and John dropped the banana bit in his mouth. The banana was just barely ripe, subtly sweet and soft on his tongue. It helped to focus on something and he rather liked bananas. John fed him another piece and he started to feel a little better. He chanced opening his eyes a crack to look at John.

“Keep your eyes closed for awhile longer,” John instructed as he dropped another piece into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock complied and chewed his banana. When the fruit was gone Sherlock was rewarded with more rubbing at his temple and he felt the world begin to right itself. He no longer felt like he was shaking, his stomach settling rapidly. “Okay,” John said after a couple minutes of silence, “You can open your eyes but stay where you are. No sense in having you faint.”

He held a glass with a straw in it to the side of Sherlock’s face for him to sip. He did so gratefully and stayed firmly planted in John’s lap. “How’s Lestrade?”

John looked into the fire and saw Lestrade curled up next to a log asleep but glowing brightly. “He’s sleeping but his glow has returned so I think he’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll give him another piece of bacon when he wakes up.”

Sherlock snorted, “You’re going to spoil him.”

“He deserves it,” John said quietly, almost like he didn’t mean for it to slip out. His face spoke of untold knowledge. Knowledge of what Sherlock couldn’t fathom and it intrigued and worried him.

John’s hand stroking the side of his face chased away half-formed questions and he just sighed, enjoying the feeling of John’s rough palm against his smooth cheek.

“He alright,” Anderson asked from behind the couch.

“He can hear you,” Sherlock responded from John’s lap, “And he is having a moment. Scuttle off till we call you. In fact, see if you can find Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure she would love to run around outside and catch a few mice.”

Anderson scuttled and Sherlock settled, sighing at John’s hands that continued to slide along his cheek and neck.

They lay that way for half an hour before John said that Sherlock could sit up. He was incredibly comfortable but he had things to show John, a surprise for John and he desperately wanted him to see it. So with a sigh he sat up, the room not spinning even a fraction, and accepted the glass John pushed into his hands. He sipped the water through the straw till the glass was empty.

“Feel better,” John asked cautiously, afraid that Sherlock might not be.

But he truly felt better and was happier for the knowledge that John cared for him. Had cared enough to doctor him twice in twentyfour hours. “Much better.” He gestured at the glass and said his thanks.

“No need to thank me.” John smiled warmly and openly. “Think you can stand?”

“Let’s try, shall we?”

John helped him up and he was definitely secure on his feet; no sinking stomach, no wobbly knees. Sherlock looked into the fire and saw Lestrade still dozing. He would be out for hours, unused to being a conduit for such heavy magic. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, head finally clear, and motioned towards the door with a nod of his head, “Ready to see where we are?”


	19. Chapter 19

John followed as Sherlock eagerly tugged him towards the portal door. He was amazed at how quickly Sherlock recovered from his overuse of magic. Granted, his knowledge of magic was limited to Sherlock, Anderson and Lestrade, but it seemed to him that Sherlock rejuvenated awfully quick. _Must be a wizard thing._

Sherlock bounced down the steps and swung open the door to the rolling hills and spacious greenery that had become a familiar sight to John. Standing together in the doorway the two men watched as Anderson and Mrs. Hudson chased butterflies through a patch of wildflowers. The boy was giggling uncontrollably at the cat acrobatics Mrs. Hudson was performing in order to, as so far unsuccessfully, catch her prey.

John took in, briefly, the rest of the area in his immediate view. Aside from the patch of wildflowers there was a copse of skinny trees and a thin creek running through it to trail off into the distance. “Lestrade set us down in a very pretty spot, don’t you think,” John asked, tearing his eyes from the happy scene in front of them to look up at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s lips twitched into the briefest of smiles before responding. “He certainly did.” He stood straighter and called out to Anderson. “Oi, Anderson! Grab Mrs. Hudson and come back inside for a moment! Time to see our new home!”

Anderson did as he was told and in no time Mrs. Hudson had scampered up the little staircase into the dim of the palace and Anderson squeezed himself between the two men awaiting the big reveal. Sherlock cleared his throat and began his explanation.

“Green is as it always is, the physical location of the palace. Obviously.” He closed the door and turned the knob to blue. “This is our new store front, Anderson. Parties in the need for this knowledge will be notified.” Without ceremony Sherlock threw the door open and stepped aside for John and Anderson to step into the new room. Or, more accurately, a new set of stairs.

At their confusion Sherlock made a shooing motion with his hands. “Well go on then, go explore.”

The pair made their way down the stairs, followed by the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps behind them. At the foot of the stairs a doorway opened up to a big living room with awfully out of date wallpaper, sofa, and fireplace. The room was mostly unfurnished, except for the sofa but John could see the potential. _Matching chairs in front of the fireplace. Or maybe mismatched chairs to match their contrasting personalities. A nice breakfast table perhaps?_

John pushed the intrusive thoughts away only to have them replaced with new ones. His mind replaced kitschy furniture with the vision of Sherlock burning with his curse, of his own face in the mirror. Nothing was certain with his own future, let alone a possible one with Sherlock. This was not the time to start planning an uncertain future complete with home decor.

Anderson ran off to another room that apparently contained a kitchen. “Whoa! Two kitchens? What are we gonna use two kitchens for?”

John felt Sherlock’s presence behind him and heard the amused sarcasm dripping from the wizard. “Perhaps we’ll open a curry shop? Give up the whole magic business, disguise ourselves as foreigners from Vietnam or Thailand and cook real pho and curry soup for the denizens of London, hmm?”

Anderson rolled his eyes and started rifling through cabinets in search of anything and everything.

John chuckled to himself and rounded on Sherlock. “Not a bad option, actually. Though, I can’t really see you in an apron serving customers. A crazy old lady waving a rolling pin about and threatening customers seems more appropriate.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Don’t tempt me.” He motioned for John to precede him into the hallway parallel to the kitchen to continue their tour of the building.

The rest of the flat contained another bedroom, a bathroom and a doorway that led downstairs to another flat below and a door to the outside. While Anderson flitted through the building, excited at the prospect of new places to explore, John and Sherlock retired to the kitchen in the upstairs flat.

This kitchen had a long table that divided the room and two chairs, mismatched, as its seating. John ran his heads along the worn wood and smiled, in love with how homey it felt beneath his fingers. His head jerked up at the feel of Sherlock touching his shoulder. He turned his beaming expression on him unsure of why he was so unreasonably happy. “Sherlock this,” he paused, licking his bottom lip, “This is fantastic. Where are we?”

Barely containing a laugh “We are at the building where I stole the palace’s door from.”

“You mean this is 221 B?”

“Baker Street.”

“Baker street?” John’s stomach fluttered with nervous excitement. “You mean-”

“The neighborhood where we met? In the alley?”

“And my clinic.”

“I took that into account.”

“But how did you know?”

“Simple. The day we met you were in a rush, presumably to procure a lunch for you and your employees, so you took a shortcut down the alley where you were so very rudely interrupted from your errand. When I met you I knew you hadn’t come from very far and when I conversed with my network the location of where you came from and where you worked was confirmed. I didn’t know at the time that you owned the clinic. Took some finagling with my brother but I had some time ago procured one of his safe houses for my own purposes and this is it.” He placed his hands on John’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I wasn’t lying to Moriarty’s little thug. This area has been, and hopefully, always will be under my protection. So long as I’m around.”

“But what about moving so Moriarty couldn’t find us?”

“Well,” Sherlock smiled, running a finger along John’s jawbone, making him shiver, “I couldn’t move too far away from my favorite Tesco. They have my favorite brand of honey.”

“All Tescos do.”

“Details.”

Their faces had inched closer and closer during their exchange, lips about to touch and seal this wonderful moment when the sound of clomping feet tearing into the doorway broke them apart.

“Anderson,” Sherlock snapped in the child’s direction, “What have I told you about the stairs?”

“Gentle,” he said rolling his eyes.

“Does nothing stick in that incredibly thick skull of yours?”

“Oh things stick. Sometimes.”

Sherlock sniffed, “That remains to be seen.” He grasped John’s hand in his own and beckoned for the two to follow him back up the stairs into the palace. “Time to see the second portal.”

Once they had all been collected at the doorway Sherlock closed the door and twisted the portal knob to a new color that John hadn’t noticed before; Yellow.

“This is someplace special. I…”

Sherlock’s voice died off mid sentence. John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, trying to impart any comfort he could give, unsure of Sherlock’s meaning. _Someplace special?_

Without another word Sherlock opened the door to a sunny garden that stood watch in front of a cozy little cottage. Two story, stone walls with ivy climbing up the side, chimney and charming tiled roof all came together to create a picture that brought prickling tears to John’s eyes. “Oh Sherlock,” John gasped. His throat was tight and he couldn’t trust himself with words. He couldn’t express the wave of joy that threatened to drown him and at the same time carry him off without a second thought. He was only vaguely aware of Anderson running about the garden, expressing his appreciation for the blooming roses, heather and lavender, his carefree running adding to the gaiety rising in John. He spun around on Sherlock, causing the wizard to step back at the sudden movement. “It’s beautiful. Where are we?”

“We are in the magical realm’s equivalent of Sussex. This,” He spun John around to take in the fullness of the quaint little cottage, “Is where I always meant to retire.” He dropped his head to rest his chin in the coarseness of John’s hair. “When I grew bored of fighting the powers that be. Thought about keeping bees.”

“Bees?”

“Bees. Do you like it, truly?”

John turned his body to collect Sherlock in a big, crushing hug, burying his head in the curve of Sherlock’s neck. “It’s absolutely brilliant, Sherlock. Gorgeous.”

“I’m happy to hear you say that. Because it’s for you, John.”

John was taken aback He pulled back to search Sherlock’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that all of this,” Sherlock swept a hand across the landscape in front of them, “is all for you. I...I wanted to give you a gift that meant something. I wanted to give you,” he added as an after thought, “and Anderson I suppose, something to hold onto.”

John couldn’t make out the meaning of his words. Was he leaving them? John’s breath left him, suddenly petrified. He tried to put more steel into his voice than he felt, donning his military voice, “Are you going somewhere? Do you no longer plan on retiring?”

Sherlock’s face crumbled into a countenance of resigned sadness. “Nothing is certain anymore. I could be gone tomorrow.”

“Do not talk that way, Sherlock!” John nearly shouted. He stepped back and coiled his sudden anger and desperation, trying to instill calmness into his voice. “There is no telling what is to happen with the war-”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said as he came forward to recollect John into his arms. “That’s why I wanted you to know this was here for you. And the flat. It’s yours to do with as you please. You can quit the clinic or turn it over to someone you trust, rent out the lower flat. Hell,” Sherlock scoffed, pressing his cheek into John’s hair. “You could actually open up a curry shop.”

 _No, no, no, no, this isn’t right,_ his mind screamed. He couldn’t picture life without Sherlock anymore. “This is you saying goodbye, isn’t it? You plan on leaving.”

Sherlock was silent for a long time, stroking John’s cheek with his thumb as John stared, pleading, into Sherlock’s eyes.

Finally he plainly stated. “It’s just a precaution. I don’t plan on leaving you, John. Ever.”

 

_~Sherlock speaks~_

 

“This is you saying goodbye, isn’t it? You plan on leaving.”

John hadn’t said it as a question. He said it plainly, assuming that Sherlock wanted to leave.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

He had wanted to make a statement to John. Wanted to plainly show him how much he meant to Sherlock. John had taken it wrong. He had gotten it wrong and Sherlock didn’t know how to correct him. He couldn’t find a way to make John understand that he didn’t know why, or how, but somehow John had broken through the cold, icy block around Sherlock’s heart and he was beginning to feel again.

How could he explain without explaining the curse? He couldn’t explain in simple facts just what had happened in the past between him and Moriarty and Lestrade. 

_If only…_

Instead of getting frustrated at the unfortunate fly in the pudding that was the limitations of his curse, he slowly collected his thoughts while stroking John’s cheek. It seemed to calm John outwardly even if his eyes shone with uncertainty and fear.

_He loves me._

The thought came to him so quietly he almost missed it amongst the other thoughts spinning around his brain. It was so simple and so complex.

_He loves me._

That thought decided him. No matter what, Sherlock would cling. He endeavored to never lose the spark that was John Watson. He would do his best to free them both and start anew;The useless and inane feeling that the universe owed him notwithstanding.

At length he realized John was waiting for him to answer. He wanted to take his fears and swallow them. Remove them and replace them with only happy thoughts; He so loved it when John smiled. Instead, knowing he could never give John false hope even though it hurt, he gave him a practical answer, hoping that it carried some of the emotional weight Sherlock intended.

“It’s just a precaution. I don’t plan on leaving you, John. Ever.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry updating has taken so long. Lots of stuff going on outside of writing. It's short but don't worry, exciting stuff will be happening very soon!

John’s mind became a flurry of relieved thoughts. _He’s not leaving. Doesn’t want to leave me. Us. Lestrade, Anderson, me. He wants to keep me close and retire to keep bees. Who even keeps bees anymore?_ Thoughts kept chasing themselves round and round in his mind until Sherlock leaned in to press a firm kiss to his forehead, sensing the disquiet. The contact stilled everything and John sighed in relief.

“So not leaving then,” he whispered. “Good.” Sherlock hummed in agreement and kissed his forehead once more before pulling back and leading him out into garden of the cottage. “Never pegged you for a gardener.”

“My grandmother taught me when I was very young.” He bent to finger the blossoming stem of a lavender stalk. “She was a paragon of healing magic. She kept all sorts of plants about and taught me each and every one of them. I used to wander her greenhouse for hours.” He smiled at the memory and looked up at John. “Perhaps one day I’ll add one like it to the palace.”

John folded his arms across his chest and grinned. “Ambitious. Can’t wait to see it.”

Sherlock stood and showed them into the little cottage. It was small, quiet and comfortable with overstuffed chairs, comfy couches, and pictures of plants and beautiful landscapes everywhere. They were just settling down for a bit of tea when they heard a loud knock at the door. The three froze at the intrusion and Sherlock bristled. “He couldn’t have found us so quickly.” He muttered a hasty “stupid” under his breath.

John tried to be reassuring. “There’s no guarantee it’s him.” Another knock startled them.

“Well who else would it be?” Sherlock snarled and gestured to the door, ”We just moved! It couldn’t be anyone else, now could it?” Sherlock was panicking visibly and it unsettled John.

He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and led him to the door, “We won’t know til we answer, now will we? Anderson get behind the chair and keep an ear out.” He gripped Sherlock’s hand and led him to the door. “We’ll handle whatever it is together. Now get your shit together.”

Sherlock shook his head and exhaled through his nose. “You’re right.” He smoothed his face to the clean, expressionless face that John came to liken to a mask, and reached a hand out to open the door. He swung the door open quickly, expecting a fight. Instead a pogoing pumpkin on a stick greeted them and they both burst into laughter.

“Well, I was wondering where you had gotten off to,” John said between breaths.

“You know this animate object?” Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched in amused questioning.

John grinned and stepped out the door to join the scarecrow. “You might say he introduced us. Found him in a field and he led me to the palace. Been wondering where he’s been.”

Sherlock’s finger tapped against his lips, a curious expression on his face. “Why does that robe look so familiar?” He followed John out and circled the scarecrow. “How’d he get here?”

“Haven’t the foggiest on how he got here,” John quipped back.

“Can I come out now,” Anderson yelled from the cottage.

“If you must,” Sherlock replied, still in thought. Eventually he seemed to have given up searching for the reason the bathrobe was familiar and addressed the scarecrow. “Well, since you’re here, try not to trample the flowers.” Sherlock took its silence for assent and suggested to John and Anderson that they should be returning to the Palace.

“We have one last stop before we end the day,” Sherlock told them before leading them back into the portal. Once they were inside Sherlock closed the door and twisted the knob back to the flat on Baker Street.

“And what is that, dare I ask?”

“Anderson is going to run some messages to my network and then we are going to checking on your clinic today.” At John’s surprised, open-mouthed stare Sherlock added, “You haven’t been in weeks, John. You need to see if it’s still standing.”

At the sudden reminder of just how long it had been since he set foot in the office his face drained. “Shit. Molly.”

Sherlock’s face seemed to crumble at the mention of Molly. “I didn’t know you were involved,” the wizard said quietly.

“No, no,” John was quick to correct. “She’s my employee and a good friend.” He bit his lip sheepishly. “I sort of left her on her own to run things while I figured this out,” he waved a hand over his face for emphasis. “I told her I would keep in touch and I really haven’t.” Thinking back to his phone, lying forgotten and almost certainly dead in his duffel, he smacked his forehead. “She’s going to literally kill me.”

Sherlock visibly brightened at the new knowledge that he was not tearing John away from anyone. He took John’s hand from his head. “Perhaps she’ll understand when she sees you.”

“Come with me? For protection, if nothing else,” John joked.

“I already said I would accompany you. Though I highly doubt you’ll need the protection.”

It took a few minutes for Sherlock to write a few notes for Anderson and give him instructions on where to find the people they were intended for and then they were all heading out the door and into London’s busy, humming atmosphere. After seeing Anderson off in the correct direction the two men made their way to John’s clinic.

On the way John told him about how he started the clinic. How he wanted to give back to the community and how he enjoyed his work. Told him about finding Molly fresh out of medical school and how, after talking with her about opening the clinic, she decided not to join the team in the morgue at St. Bart’s and to come work for him at a much less prestigious, but much more rewarding, location. Sherlock listened intently and offered interested comments and in no time at all they were standing in front of his clinic.

Before he could even touch the handle to open the door it came flying out into his face.

“John Hamish Watson-”

Sherlock chuckled, “Hamish?”

“Shut up,” John spat at Sherlock.

“No, you shut up, Watson,” Molly yelled at him. “You have been gone a month-”

“Three and a half weeks-”

“A month!” She punched his good shoulder and crossed her arms, glaring at him. “Where the bloody hell have you been? Why haven’t you called? I was so worried I nearly put out a missing person’s on you!”

John frowned and looked at his feet. “I’m sorry, Molly. Time sort of got away from me.”

The initial anger in Molly was suddenly replaced with concern. She reached out and lifted his face. “Jesus, John,” she whispered. “What happened to your face?”

John closed his eyes, not wanting her to see the hurt embarrassment in his face. “Long story.” He slid her hands off his face and wove his fingers into Sherlock, squeezing his hand tightly. He sucked in a deep breath and introduced the two unacquainted people he stood between. “Molly, I want you to meet someone, who you can place a small blame on my going AWOL.” He let Sherlock’s hand go, “Molly Hooper, meet Sherlock Holmes.”

Molly took Sherlock’s hand in a hesitant grasp and eyed the tall man suspiciously. Addressing John she asked, “He do that to your face?”

Sherlock visibly winced at her words and John cut in quickly, “No! God, no! You think I’d be standing here with him if he did?”

“Just checking.” She looked seriously at John, “Still, you should have called.”

“I’m sorry. Anyway I can make it up to you?”

“I want a raise.”

“Done.”

“And I want you to come to dinner tonight to meet my new boyfriend.”

“Also done.”

“Good.” Molly smiled brightly and hugged John, startling him and Sherlock. “Oh, he’s so wonderful. I’m sure you’ll like him.”

John laughed lightly and hugged her back. “I’m sure I will. What’s his name?”

“Jim. Shall we say Angelo’s? Half past seven?”

“I’ll be there,” John let her go and gestured to the clinic. “Need any help in there today?”

“Are you done fixing your emergency?” John pursed his lips and thought about lying to her. In the end he remained truthful and told her he hadn’t. “Then no I don’t need your help. I hired someone new while you were gone. A woman named Sally Donovan. We’ll get on quite well without you for awhile longer.”

“I’m sure you will. I will have my phone on me from now on, I promise. I won’t go off the radar again.”

“Better not.” Molly smiled at Sherlock, who had handled being mostly ignored quite well, John thought. “You’re coming to dinner too, right?”

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to look uninterested. “If I’m invited I suppose I’ll join you. Rather enjoy Angelo’s.”

“Perfect. See you tonight, then.” She waved at them both and ducked back into the clinic, leaving the men slightly shaken.

“So, she’s,” Sherlock’s comment trailed off.

“Yeah. She’s...something. A good friend.” He threw Sherlock a cheeky grin, “Likes you, you know.”

“How on earth can you tell?”

“She yelled at you. That’s proof enough.” Sherlock laughed and eventually John joined in as they walked back to 221, arms linked as they walked.

As they stepped into the doorway John ventured, “Looking forward to dinner tonight?”

“Not really. But can’t let you go alone, can I?”

“And why would that be?”

Sherlock crowded him against the wall in the hallway, his head dipping to kiss John’s neck. “Because maybe this Jim will see just how fantastically fit you look in a jumper and decide he really would prefer to have you instead.”

John huffed, amused. “Thought you hated my jumpers.” He shivered as Sherlock bit down on his collarbone.

Sherlock lifted his head and smiled down at John. “Perhaps my tastes have changed.” He kissed him deeply then added, “Besides. They look very good on the floor. I rather like them that way.”

“Cheeky git,” John laughed and pushed Sherlock off him raced up the stairs with Sherlock at his heels.


	21. Chapter 21

Half past seven found Sherlock and John at Angelo’s discovering they had beaten Molly and Jim to the restaurant. They were just being shown to a table to await the couple when a man came bounding up to their table with a big, welcoming grin on his face.

“Ah, Sherlock! So good to see you again!” His arms opened and trapped the wizard in a big embrace. The resigned look on Sherlock’s face nearly sent John into a fit. He covered with a cough and stifled the sounds in his fist.

“Yes, yes, very exciting to see you again, Angelo, would you please unhand me?” “Of course,” Angelo said and instantly released his hold on Sherlock and motioned for him to sit. He looked at John and beamed with pride. “You know, this man saved my life! He saved my life and my restaurant and is my favorite customer!” Sherlock explained to John that he thwarted an arson attempt on his restaurant while Angelo had fallen asleep in his office. He didn’t mention that he had also found that Angelo was laundering money through his business and in exchange for not telling anyone he always ate for free.

“Just the two of you tonight, Sherlock? How very romantic! Why don’t I just get some candles to set the mood?” Without waiting for a response he turned on his heel and left the two men alone.

John blushed, his ears pink as he dipped his head to drink some water. “Seems like a nice fellow.” Sherlock was about to respond when every hair stood up on the back of his neck. His body grew tense and he felt his jaw clench. John saw the change in his countenance and followed his gaze with his own eyes until they found the source of Sherlock’s tension. When he did he had a very similar reaction.

Walking towards their table, arm in arm, was a lovely Molly being escorted by a very smug looking Moriarty. Both men stood as the couple approached the table.

“Hello, John,” Molly greeted with a smile that screamed blissful ignorance. “This is Jim. Jim, meet my boss and good friend, John Watson, and Sherlock his-”

Sherlock interrupted coldly, “Pleasure to meet you. Jim.” They shook hands, and John repeated the motion and they all sat. Moriarty even pulled out Molly’s chair for her and she blushed, giggling at the gesture. The table was silent and Molly began to pick up the fact that something was off.

“Have you three met before?”

“Oh, we’ve met,” Moriarty said, voice dripping with amusement. “Sherlock and I grew up together, actually.” He motioned to John, “John is more of a recent...acquaintance.”

Molly smiled, “how lovely. Small world, as they say.”

Moriarty’s eyes never left Sherlock. “Growing smaller every day.” There was malicious intent clinging to the phrase and John wanted nothing more than to grab Sherlock and Molly and make a run for the door. He had no idea what would happen if he did so he stayed put and began searching for a safe exit.

Sherlock leaned in and asked, “how long have you been seeing each other, then?” The unasked question clear: How long have you known where we are?

“Oh not long at all. Three weeks, perhaps?”

So he had been looking in on John’s life from the very beginning. John did not like that one bit and vibrated with an intense need to either leave or sink his fist into Moriarty’s nose. He didn’t really want to throw himself into the path of a powerful wizard but he had used and abused Sherlock and now he was clearly showing that he could get close to and hurt people in John’s circle as well. It was too personal now.

John and Sherlock eyed each other, silently conversing. He saw in Sherlock’s eye the silent question _fight or flight_ and John nodded grimly. They were going to end this, one way or another. Sherlock nodded in return and rose from his seat.

“Well, I’m afraid that you have us, Moriarty. Would you like to get your little show of dominance over with or would you like to wait until after pudding?”

Moriarty clapped his hands in front of his face and laughed. “Oh, Sherlock! Always in such a rush. Well,” he looked at Molly, who still remained ignorant of just how much danger she was in, was now beginning to realize the situation was rapidly changing. “I suppose we could always take a rain check on the dinner.” He rose and held out his hand to Molly, “I’m afraid the charade is over, love. But don’t worry, the night has just begun and we’re going to have ever so much fun with our boys.” He turned an icy glare to John and Sherlock. “Aren’t we?”

Without moving his eyes from Moriarty John said, “Do as he says, Molly. We’ll keep you safe.”

Her voice quivered as she took Moriarty’s hand, “what is going on Jim? John?”

“Just old friends catching up,” Moriarty explained as they all made their way out the door.

Back out onto the street their feet turned towards Baker Street. Moriarty exclaimed, “I have been dying to see your new digs, Sherlock.” When no one bothered to reply he whined, “Aww, the silent treatment? So soon?” He harrumphed and continued. “No worries. Before the night is out we’ll all be ever so chummy again. You’ll see.”

After what seemed like ages they were mounting the stairs that led to 221B and they were being let into the flat. “How homey of you, Sherlock. So pedestrian.”

“It suits its purpose,” was all that Sherlock had to say on the matter.

Moriarty ushered them into the living room and conjured a couch and two wood-framed chairs. The couch was flush against the wall with the outdated wallpaper and the chairs sat in front of it facing each other. It was a stage.

Moriarty gestured them to take their places. “Now, Molly dear, you sit here on the couch next to our good doctor. And Sherlock, you take this chair,” he pointed to the one in front of where Molly was to sit. He took the one in front of where John was to sit. They were placed, actors on a stage, pieces on a board. The game had begun.

“Now, Sherlock,” Moriarty said in a calm even voice. “How could you think I wouldn’t find you? You’ve been so sloppy, lately.” He shook his head and whined, “It’s disappointing.”

“I figured your obsession with me would catch up sooner or later,” Sherlock answered. “You’ve been rather...relentless.”

“Can you blame me?” He asked John, “Really, can you blame me? He’s so,” his arms flailed in the air as he collected his thoughts, “unpredictable. It’s fascinating to watch,” he drew his hands over his mouth. “But then again so am I.”

Before anyone had a chance to do anything else John flung himself from the couch and wrapped his arms around Moriarty threatening to crush Moriarty’s neck. “Take Molly and run, Sherlock!”

“Oh, oh, this is so much more fun than I was expecting, “ Moriarty crowed. He began to laugh hysterically. “You think by sacrificing yourself that it will make a difference in how he feels? I got news for you, Johnny.” He puffed out his chest and blew air out his mouth to gust the chair backward into the wall, knocking the wind out of John and effectively loosening his hold on him. Molly stifled a scream in her hands and stared on in terror. “He doesn’t feel. Thanks to me.”

Moriarty easily got out of the chair and bent over a gasping John. “Thanks to me, he doesn’t have a heart. And he never will.”

“Then why do you persist,” John gasped.

“Because it’s so much fun winding up our little Sherlock and watching him go.” He stood upright and looked at Sherlock. “Besides, he’s so useful sometimes. We could really use his help for the new regime.”

“Not on your wretched life, Moriarty.” Sherlock stood up and crossed the room to stand toe-to-toe with Moriarty. “I told you so long before. You’ll. Never. Have me.”

Moriarty just huffed indignantly. “Such a shame. We could have had so much fun together.”He crouched down next to John who was still crouching on the floor.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide with fear and his heart dropped into his stomach. _Not again. Not with John._  John tried to struggle to stand and Moriarty easily pushed him back down. Sherlock’s voice stuck in his throat, he wanted to scream at him to leave John alone, to do anything but hurt John. Somehow he managed to croak, “what are you doing?”

“I’m settling for having some fun with your boy toy here. I had such a good time with that other one, what was his name?”

“Lestrade,” John supplied.

“That’s right, thank you.” Moriarty’s face suddenly drained. “How did you know that?”

Sherlock’s mind was frantically screaming inside his head _-he knows he knows he knows, how on earth does he know?-_ but Sherlock couldn’t say anything. He couldn’t fathom how John would know.

“Little birdy told me,” John said. He suddenly had a mad idea. A outright, stark raving mad idea. But he couldn’t think of any other way to get out of this situation and he knew that no matter how this would play out he was going to suffer. He might as well try to go out fighting. “Do your worst.”

“You don’t seem frightened,” Moriarty said plainly.

“You’re not very frightening.”

The wizard just chuckled in response and said, “Very well then.” He lowered his hand to John’s back. Before it touched the fabric of his jumper a shout startled both of them.

“John!”

Sherlock tried to reach for John just John just shouted back, “It’s fine, Sherlock.” He tore his eyes away from Moriarty. If this didn’t work he didn’t want his last sight to be the cold, calculating eyes of his torturer. He wanted it to be the man he loved. “Keep your eyes fixed on me, Sherlock.”

Finally he felt the soft pressure of Moriarty’s hand on his back and soon it bloomed into an intense heat. John felt himself begin to sweat and his face twitched with the discomfort but he kept his eyes on Sherlock. Quickly the heat became unbearable and John found himself covered with flames and he heard himself scream. The last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was Sherlock dropping to his knees and tears flowing down his cheeks. Now he had to focus or he would surely be lost.

John searched his memory for the sight of Sherlock as a boy teaching a young Moriarty to channel his energy. There they were, standing in a field, a cloud of leaves hovering, swirling above them. _You’re forcing it. You have to feel the magic flow through you._ John focused on the pulse that lay beneath the fire. The pulse that stemmed from Moriarty’s hand that remained planted on his back. _Think of something happy and direct the energy toward the leaf._

Moment of truth. Think of something happy. Don’t think of the pain.

He thought of Sherlock. He thought about the first time they kissed. The feeling of Sherlock’s lips against his wrist and then again pressed to his own lips. He remembered how they fumbled at each other and the way it felt to be pressed against each other. He thought of Sherlock’s smile when he was genuinely happy and how so few people got to see it. He felt everything and then he realized he was no longer in pain.

_Have I died?_

He opened his eyes to find Sherlock still weeping on his knees in front of him. When he pushed himself to a kneeling position as well he heard someone curse.

“What in seven hells,” Moriarty hissed.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice squeaked.

He looked at his hands to see himself still aflame.

Sherlock yelled, “what have you done to him?”

Moriarty shouted back, “I don’t know!”

John found his own voice. “Shut up both of you.” He stood and felt Moriarty scoot away from him as fast as he could. He turned to the sound and found the wizard had back himself into a corner of the room and was staring at John.

“I-impossible...you can’t-”

“Oh, I think I am.” John walked slowly, purposefully towards Moriarty. When he reached the shaking wizard he crouched down and looked at him. He held out a single finger poised above the wizard’s forehead. “Consider this payback from Lestrade, Sherlock and myself.” He pressed the finger to Moriarty’s forehead and Moriarty began to scream. John shouted at him, “And for everyone else you have ever hurt!” He poured everything he felt, anger, hatred, love, and fear into Moriarty and felt all his energy push into the man before him.

In a matter of seconds Moriarty’s skin had turned black and crackly and the fire consumed him and his screams until nothing was left but a pile of ash.

John looked back at his hands and found he was no longer burning. He couldn’t stop staring at his hands and a few seconds went by before he noticed tear drops on his hands. He was crying and he had no idea why.

A soft voice called to him, “John.”

As if under a spell John turned his head to see Sherlock’s stunned and silently crying face. He looked as if he was crumbly, falling apart, and suddenly John needed to move. Needed to hold him and tell him, show him, that he was fine. That Moriarty couldn’t hurt them or anyone else ever again.

He tried to stand to do just that and felt his legs give out beneath him and his eyes slipped closed. The weight of the magic he just performed drew him down into a dark oblivion and he felt himself drift away.


	22. Chapter 22

When John next awoke he was disoriented.

_Where am I? Where’s Molly? Where’s Sherlock? Is he okay? Am I dead? Is this heaven or hell? Why does everything hurt me so damn much?_

He felt like he had been hit by a truck. Groaning he pushed himself to a sitting position and clutched his head. Then there were gentle hands touching his arms.

“John,” he heard Molly say. “You alright, boss?”

“What?”

“You’ve been out for two days. You scared the hell out of us.”

“Where’s Sherlock?”

Molly smiled faintly and pointed down at his feet. Sherlock was there, his lower body in a chair and his upper body sprawled at the foot of the bed with one arm curled under his head as a pillow and the other clutching John’s ankle. How had he not felt that before? He flexed the foot in Sherlock’s hand and saw Sherlock’s eyes flutter open. His eyes were drawn and grey, so tired and worried and it made John ache. And then he spoke. “John.”It was so soft, almost non-existent and it brought a tear to his eye. Sherlock crawled up the bed to hold John’s face in his hands to see for himself that he was alright.

“It’s alright,” John whispered, collecting him into his arms and holding him close. “I’m alright.”

Sherlock’s head was buried in his neck but he still heard clear as day Sherlock’s reply. “Like hell you are.”

He felt wetness against his skin and knew Sherlock was crying. He saw Sherlock cry before he let Moriarty touch him, before he went up in flames and before he had blacked out. He hadn’t known Sherlock could cry.

“Shh, love,” John soothed, running a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “I’m here, aren’t I?” He suddenly startled himself with an amazing thought. He pushed Sherlock gently away from his face and felt nothing but smooth skin. “Molly! Can you get me a mirror?” She left them and came back with a small mirror from her purse and John could see it for himself.

There was nothing but smooth skin on his face. He pulled down the neck of his shirt and felt the rough-textured skin of the scar he had chosen to keep. Sherlock touched it, one finger sliding across the skin. “I knew that one was different,” he whispered.

That was it. The curse was broken. He laughed from such great joy and knew he could finally tell Sherlock everything and Sherlock could do so in return. No more secrets. No more curses. With Moriarty gone there was nothing left to keep them apart. Then another question struck him. “Where’s Lestrade?”

Molly chuckled. “Down at the pub having his first pint in years.” She grabbed Sherlock’s abandoned chair and sat it down next to the bed and looked at the two men. “Now, would you two mind explaining everything? Cause I think I’m goin’ a bit mad, here.”

Sherlock started by telling her how Sherlock and Moriarty were acquainted and how he and Lestrade had been cursed. Then John took over the story by telling her how he became cursed and where he had been for so long. They both glossed over some of the more delicate details, like how they went to bed together and developed a fondness for each other or how Sherlock’s brother worked for an almost immortal queen, who would most certainly be dead or dying without Moriarty's help.

After they had caught Molly up Sherlock asked the one question he had been dying to ask ever since he witnessed John perform a magic so powerful it scared him. “How did you manage to do what you did?”

“Actually,” John chuckled, wincing at the pain it caused, “you have yourself to thank for that.” At Sherlock’s upturned eyebrow John explained. “Remember how you said that your room was your dream? That the whole palace was kind of a dream?” Sherlock nodded and he continued. “Well, that night,” he paused and his eyes flicked over to Molly and he coughed into his hand, embarrassed, “that first night in your bedroom…”

Sherlock took a minute to realize which night John was talking about and his mouth made a pretty little “O” in his understanding. Then he too blushed a little and dipped his head.

“Well, that night, while we were sleeping I had a dream. A dream that came from your memories, Sherlock.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hands in his own and kissed each knuckle, silently thanking every god he knew that his crazy plan had worked and he was still here and able to do just that. “I saw you teaching Moriarty how to channel his magic into the leaf.”

“Oh,” was all that Sherlock managed to say.

“I thought,” he paused, the words sticking to his throat. “I thought of you.” He brushed away a curl that had found it’s way over Sherlock’s eye and he pressed a light kiss to his lips. “I thought of you and that’s what saved us.” He kissed him again lightly and whispered, “I love you so much.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock whispered in return, “I love you too.” He kissed John’s cheeks, his eyelids and trailed his way back to John’s lips. “You’ve given me back my heart and it’s utterly yours, John Watson.”

They found each other’s lips again and they sunk into each other. They were quickly losing time and space before Molly’s voice separated them. “That’s so romantic, I could just die.” Her happy sniffling had them both laughing and John felt the world beginning to feel right again.

 

_~Epilogue~_

 

 

The next day John was well enough to get out of bed but was still shaky from all the expended energy and the time spent in bed. He suggested some fresh air and Sherlock knew exactly where to go. He bundled up a small lunch and then he and John walked through the portal to the little cottage. They had just stepped through when they were surprised to find a man, dressed only in a red dressing gown and grey knit cap, laying about in Sherlock’s garden.

“May we help you,” Sherlock said from afar. Then the man sat up and Sherlock could see his face clearly. “You have got to be joking,” he stammered.

“‘Fraid not,” the man said.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, “who is that?”

“John, you are looking at the last surviving member of the magical realm’s Royal Family, Prince William.”

“I prefer Billy, actually.”

“Prince Billy,” Sherlock amended. “What are you still doing here? You have a country to run.”

“Didn’t know where to go exactly. Thought I’d just wait around til you two showed back up. Figured eventually you would. S’a nice place.”

John was astounded. Moriarty had touched so many people. How many others would suddenly find that they were freed from their curses and they could breathe freely?

Sherlock’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Yes it is rather nice and I’d like it to remain a refuge so if you wouldn’t mind, Prince Billy,” he gestured to the portal they had just stepped through, “would you mind buggering off for a couple hours? I promise to escort you home when we’re done having our lunch.”

Billy shrugged and walked off towards the portal, “makes no nevermind to me. Enjoy your lunch.”

They watched as Billy walked through the portal and closed the door, leaving them alone. A breath passed before John stated the obvious, “He doesn’t look very regal.”

“He never did. Moriarty must have found it endlessly amusing that the last one of the line left alive was the last one anyone would expect to take the throne.” He led John into the cottage all the while talking about how he had heard that the prince was selectively intelligent, a god at magic but couldn’t spell to save his live, and also incredibly unmotivated to do much of anything. He went on about his observations on everything and anything as he began setting up their lunch on the cozy little table in the cottage. He had just started talking about his plans for setting up his beehives when he felt a John Watson press against his back. He stopped talking immediately and covered the hands that were clasped over his front with his own.

“You talk too much,” John mumbled against his back.

“You gonna stop me?”

“You bet your sweet arse, I am.” Sherlock laughed as John spun him around and pulled his head down into a kiss.

He knew he would never tired of feeling those lips against his. He would never be bored of the way John made him feel. For the first time in so long he could feel his heart beating strongly and full of love. He kissed John with everything he had and made a vow to take full advantage of having a heart. He would make sure that John knew he was loved. He would make sure they were all loved, in fact.

While they kissed Sherlock started a mental list of everything he would do to show his love. A new cat bed for Mrs. Hudson and a tin of tuna a day (though that was very likely to just make her fat), he would send Anderson away to school (J.K. Rowling never knew how close to the truth she was with Hogwarts), and he would get Lestrade the telly he had never ceased asking for.

Most important of all, he would give John his life. He was John’s and he would spend the rest of his life showing him how much he cared.

And, of course, he would get the first jar of honey. John would call him brilliant for keeping bees and the quality of the honey and that would be it.

That would be life with John. Brilliant and full of sweetness.

 

_The End._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! Thank you all so much reading and I hope you enjoyed the ride! I know I did!


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